

















































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































THE HAUNTED HOUSE 

OF 

MARLEY 

(Merely Michael) 

By MARK SOMERS :: 

Author of "The Bridge," "The Endless Quest ” 



NEW YORK 

MOFFAT , YARD & COMPANY 

1923 
















v 




i ; 

» : • 







5U 


* • 


>* ' * 




r 





’ ■ f -1 






CHAPTER I 


On a night in November—the seventeenth, to be exact— 
four men were gathered round the massive table of Marley 
House. Dinner was over, and in its pleasant after-glow 
Dick Marley and Michael Frayne turned to the firelight 
with a sense of well-being after a hard day’s hunting over 
a stiffish bit of country. They smoked and drowsed and 
took but a fitful interest in the talk wherein Bailey joined 
issue with old Jimmy, his host. 

I say f old,’ for ' old Jimmy ’ he always has been, with his 
round jolly face and his ready smile, taking his simple 
pleasure in life and giving of it to others. Such a man was 
James Marley, possessed of popularity and the air of 
one who never worries. 

Michael was vaguely conscious of the murmur of voices 
and of the firelight; sometimes he was conscious of nothing 
at all; and Dick was in a like condition. It was old 
Jimmy’s voice which roused them both. 

“Damn nonsense! I have heard that sort of thing 
before.” There was a humorous twinkle in his eyes and 
the flames lit up his rosy face until it glowed like a harvest 
moon. “Listen to this,” he bellowed in a voice that 
roused Dick with a start. 

“ What’s that ? . . . What ? ” he repeated with a yawn. 

“ I was telling him of the Somme country—how it is a 
haunted country, now and for always.” It was Bailey 
who explained in his quiet way. He had come down to 
Marley that afternoon after a month’s re-visiting old- 
remembered scenes in Picardy, 


8 


MERELY MICHAEL 


Jimmy snorted, then he winked. But Bailey was not 
to be put off. 

“You remember/' he said, addressing Michael but with 
his gaze fixed on the fire; “you remember that bright 
little spot where Dick copped it, and where you- ” 

Michael cut him short: “ Yes,” and he frowned. He 
never cared to talk about that sort of thing himself. 

“ Well, I rode all over the country. ... It was dusk 
when I got to that particular spot. The horse I was 
riding was an old French hack. . . . Need one say more ? 

“ It had no imagination, like old Mickey here/’ drawled 
Dick. He was about twenty-eight, but his smooth, sun¬ 
tanned face and laughing eyes made him look more boyish 
still. 

Michael’s good-humoured, resolute face lost none of its 
imperturbability ; he stretched himself, swinging his great 
arms above his head, and yawning mightily. Bailey 
continued : 

“As twilight settled down, the old hack got more 
jumpy. A mist was forming in the valley. I turned the 
horse’s head towards the crest—you remember that mound 
of the dead ? . . . Well, I cantered him up the slope of 
that. He did not want to go a bit, it was all I could do 
to keep him to it. Near the top he pulled up in a sweat 
and refused to go further, forefeet planted well in front of 
him and muscles rigid. I felt him tremble under me. 
Suddenly he reared on end—that ancient Paris hack!— 
spun round and bolted. It was a couple of miles before 
I could pull him up.” 

Jimmy laughed. “Simply an association of ideas. 
Your mind harked back to what had happened in the past, 
and your imagination peopled the living silence with 
the dead. So you scare yourself and end in scaring the 
old hack." 

Bailey shook his head. “No/’ he said, “it is not all 



MERELY MICHAEL 


9 


subjective—at least, there is more to it than that. Mind, 
I'm not saying it is * spooks.* I don’t believe in them 
myself. But there is some unknown quantity—a thought, 
influence, call it what you please—and it’s there you’ll find 
it, where the ground is soaked in blood, and the atmosphere 
charged with the passions of men who killed and were 
killed.” 

Jimmy sat bolt upright, his chin thrust forward at its 
most defiant angle. “ Now, look here,” he said, a spark of 
steel in his eyes, “this old house of Marley is said to be 
haunted. It had lain empty for years when I returned to 
England after making that little bit in the Colonies which 
enabled me to buy it back into the family.” 

Nothing fanciful about Jimmy. Not much sentiment 
either, save that of re-establishing a long-decayed house. 
He proceeded : 

“ It passed out of the family on the death of Rupert 
Marley, he who fought against the Roundheads and ended 
by committing suicide in that hall of the old wing which 
I shall show you presently. There was no money left, and 
the place was shut up for a couple of centuries, until it was 
bought by a successful cotton-spinner. And he—well, it 
is a fact, or rather a coincidence, that it should be that 
same hall in which he chose to end a successful career with 
a bullet through his head. There was a curious lack of 
motive, it is true ; everything prospering with him, and 
his family launched in the world and doing well. . . . 
What’s that?” he queried. “A proof of what you 
say ? Not a bit of it! A fit of madness, and nothing 
more.” He examined the inch of ash he was carefully 
retaining on the end of his cigar. 

“Well-? ” 

“Well, the old house lay empty again until I came 
along to buy it. And here I am. I have lived here for 
eight years now, and the proof of the pudding is in the 



10 


MERELY MICHAEL 


eating. Here I am. ... I don’t look like a suicide, do 
I ? ” he demanded with the fat, merry chuckle we all 
loved him for. His red, chubby face creased into a net¬ 
work of wrinkles. 

Michael was listening now. The sleep had gone out of 
his eyes and he was watching the candle-light on Bailey’s 
keenly sensitive face, noting the fine lines of it and the 
intelligence of the high, broad forehead. One of those 
men from whom something brilliant is always expected : 
at school, where he had first met Bailey, and again in their 
’Varsity days. But nothing had come of it, nothing so far. 

“But,” Bailey objected, “you don’t use the old wing, 
Jimmy. And that is where the ‘influence ’ rests.” 

Jimmy laughed heartily as he answered : “ And that is 
just where you are wrong, young fellow. I use it quite 
a lot in winter. The open hearth is what I like. The 
alcove is roomy and restful, and it is cosy ; and there is a 
flight of stairs connecting the hall with my bedroom.” 

Before parting for the night, old Jimmy insisted on 
their inspecting his “haunted hall,” tramping down the 
long passage in front of them to show the way. 

“It is more or less my study,” he observed. “ I come 
in here to read before tumbling off to bed—more so as 
the nights draw in.” 

They had come to the end of the long, dim corridor, and 
as he spoke Jimmy threw open the door. 

“This,” said he, “is the old hall.” 


CHAPTER II 

Michael paused a moment, with Bailey peering over his 
shoulder. 

He recollected the rare occasions on which he had been 
in the old hall, and the vague misgivings always left behind. 
He was not a fanciful man—his friends put it in stronger 
terms than that—but there was something conveyed to 
his mind by the atmosphere of the place, and to which he 
confessed when I taxed him with it. 

“You feel/’ he said, “the inevitable something that 
must have happened here—and it has still the air of 
awaiting its hour/' 

An inexplicable obsession ; he regarded it as such, and 
there he left it. 

They entered the great medieval hall in silence, treading 
lightly with an almost instinctive dread of awaking sound ; 
and as they made their way to the fireplace at the far end 
the shadows kept closing in behind. 

“ Something ought to happen here—I don't know what." 

It was Bailey who spoke, and almost in a whisper, but 
Michael started at words which so nearly echoed his own 
thoughts. 

Bailey was not surprised at a man shooting himself in 
such a place. He gave an odd little laugh as he said it, 
breaking off with a gasp as a curtain suddenly billowed 
out and a shadow travelled up the wall, swayed an instant, 
and was gone. 

Jimmy's eyes began to dance. He shot a glance at 

n 


12 


MERELY MICHAEL 


Bailey. “Makes you jump—eh? It is little things like 
that which give the old house a bad name. But there is 
no vice in it. Come along and warm up at the fire.” And 
he led the way at a brisker pace, chuckling fatly to himself. 

It was a large hall, the length of it considerable in 
proportion to its width. At the end at which they had 
entered there was a wide staircase leading to a gallery 
above, with a corridor on which Jimmy’s bedroom opened. 
It was all in darkness, but at the further end there was a 
bright ring of light where, in a deep alcove, contained 
between two buttress-like walls, a huge log fire shot out 
living flames which crackled as they leapt up the vast 
chimney. 

The alcove alone was some thirty by twenty feet, and 
famous for its old carved panelling. Above the great 
chimney was a masterpiece of scuplture in stone wrought 
by an Italian of the fifteenth century, in the centre of which 
was blazoned the family escutcheon of the Marleys. It 
was a valuable fixture ; an extravagant offer had been made 
for it the previous year by a Marley long settled in America. 
Save for a few chairs of modern design and a bookcase, the 
furniture was stained with age and damp. 

Outside the circle of brilliant light which filled the 
alcove, things were vague and shadowy, the fire now and 
then sending strange flickering lights and shadows up 
and down the old tapestries and suits of mail, or playing 
on the low oak-raftered ceiling, and sometimes falling on 
ancient, gloomy curtains which draped the narrow windows. 

A portiere spanned the space between one of the but¬ 
tresses and the main wall of the hall. Jimmy drew this 
aside, disclosing a glass door, and explained : 

“The door leads to the conservatory below, and that, in 
turn, has its exit on the old yew shrubbery which surrounds 
the vault wherein all good Marleys are laid to rest. . . . 
There is a pane of glass broken here, as you see. A gust 


MERELY MICHAEL 


13 


of wind has blown the outer door open because the car¬ 
penter has removed the lock to mend it and not replaced 
it yet. The portiere billows out in the draught—and 
there you are ! But knowing a man committed suicide 
here, it makes you jump—eh ? ” and he gave a wink at 
Bailey. 

If, he added, your imagination demands that a place be 
haunted, haunted it will remain. His did not; that was 
the difference. 

Dick Marley glanced about him. “I think-” he 

began, and stopped. 

A curious little sigh took him suddenly, and the words 
which had formed on his lips were never spoken. The 
irresponsible gaiety had died out of his face ; and, watching 
him closely, Michael wondered if the same feeling weighed 
on Dick—the feeling of suspense imprisoned within four 
walls ; or whether that other cause were at work of which 
he had heard for the first time that afternoon. 

The four were ranging themselves in comfort about the 
fire when there came a soft, stealthy footstep from behind, 
and Peters appeared, bearing a tray with glasses and a 
curiously wrought crystal decanter. 

He was a good servant, Peters. He went about his 
work swiftly and silently, but never once have I seen him 
smile. The pallor of his face was accentuated by the 
black clothes he wore, and his skin was like parchment; 
that, together with his lank black hair, and his inveterate 
habit of keeping his eyes on the ground, made a rather 
unprepossessing person of him. Peters’ pessimism was of 
the confirmed order, like that of a man hoping for the 
worst while fearing the best. The gloom of the fellow was 
abyssmal, and in marked contrast to the geniality of the 
master he had served for many years, so that I have often 
wondered in what part of the globe old Jimmy picked 
him up. 



14 


MERELY MICHAEL 


The alcove was a snug little corner, could you have 
eliminated the vast background of shadows. Jimmy rose 
to do the honours, and I can picture the hearty old fellow 
myself, rubicund of countenance and jovial, plying de¬ 
canter and syphon for himself and his friends. 

He really could not imagine, he remarked blandly, why 
people should let their minds dwell on past associations 
when there was nothing in the present but an atmosphere 
of comfort and a pre-war blend of whisky which was none 
too bad. Neurotic emotionalism is what he termed it. 
So saying, he applied himself to his glass. 

“ It may not be the best place for a man afflicted with 
a depression. But I ”—and old Jimmy’s laugh rang out— 
“ I am not that man.” 

Bailey’s face lighted up in the firelight. He regarded 
old Jimmy with a look of affection and said : “You are a 
perfect Tapley in your humour, Jimmy. You buy a house 
that is tumbling to pieces, and live in the gloomy wings so 
that you may smile in it.” 

“As my forebears smiled before me. Dick there is the 
last of the old Marleys, and he can smile too, though he is 
infernally dull to-night. . . . Not yourself, my lad,” he said. 
“Not your bucking, merry self. What’s the matter? ” 

But Dick made no reply to the old man’s kindly inquiry. 

Michael had risen and was examining the exquisite old 
panelling more closely. He wheeled half round, and his 
glance encountered Dick’s. Suddenly he looked away; 
but his finger must have pressed a spring, for at that 
moment a panel flew open, disclosing a niche and a pistol 
concealed within. 

“Hullo 1 ” he exclaimed. “What’s this?” 

He was about to take it out and examine it, but a look 
on Jimmy’s face caused him to close the panel instead. 
Associating the whole with an incident in Jimmy’s past, 
he regretted his being the cause of recalling it now. 


MERELY MICHAEL 


15 


Bailey’s dark eyes smiled. He was not conversant with 
the incident himself, so he said in a chaffing sort of way : 

“ So you have protected yourself against the ‘ influence 1 
after all ? ” 

“Something more material than that.” 

Jimmy’s mouth closed up like a trap, and there was an 
unsmiling look in his eyes which forbade further questioning. 

A silence fell. The strange brooding quiet of the place 
settled down ; the curtains stirred no more, though a wind 
came sighing down the chimney and ended in a moan. 
Again silence. Bailey fidgeted in his chair, while every 
now and then he would keep turning his head to peer into 
the gloom behind. 

“Ugh! ” he ejaculated. “It gives me the creeps.” 

Then, as if driven by some irresistible force, he jumped 
up and stood with his back to the fire, deliberately facing 
the background, with a shrinking expectancy in his gaze. 
It was hard to believe that this was the same Bailey who 
had discoursed on shooting and sport with so much coolness 
and judgment a short hour before. 

“ Ha, ha! ” roared Jimmy, now thoroughly restored to 
his humour. 

Every man his own paradox ? Well, it was true enough. 
There was Bailey, who had applied himself to a life of 
hair’s-breadth escapes—and the shadows of a room made 
him fidget. 

“I seem to have lost my nerve a bit,” was all Bailey 
said in answer to Jimmy’s banter. In his fine dark eyes 
was the fever light of the tropics where he had spent some 
years before the war had fetched him back to France. 

Old Jimmy pursued the topic further, in his jesting vein. 
There was Michael, he said, a journalist, secretly aspiring 
to novel-writing, and with not an atom of romance in his 
soul. 

“Yes, Michael is like me—solid, secure, and with no 


16 


MERELY MICHAEL 


damn nonsense about him. It was not his fault that he 
got into the hottest fighting in France and came out of 
it with a whole skin and quite a useful decoration. That, 
because he is merely Michael, who has no sort of use for 
that sort of thing. And then," Jimmy proceeded, " there 
is poor old Dick, a fiery seeker of the bubble reputation up 
to the cannon’s mouth-’’ 

"Bubbly, you mean, Jimmy—up to the bottle’s brim.” 

And when he had said it, Michael threw back his head 
and gave that great laugh of his. Dick termed it * ‘ leonine, 
but mostly asinine ’’; but they all joined in. 

‘ * Dick is badly outed by a stray shot before he gets well 
into the line, and is condemned to Blighty and a wound 
stripe. ... So here we are, all paradoxes of ourselves, 
and mostly slaves to circumstance.’’ 

Thus old Jimmy of the cheery soul, taking his pleasure 
in a haunted, gloomy hall, poking fun at each in turn and 
enjoying his own jests immoderately. 

In the solid comfort of the alcove, gay with firelight, the 
night wore pleasantly on. Jimmy’s laugh rang out often 
and again. Endowed with means and a sound digestion, 
he enjoyed life if ever a man did. It was Bailey who 
recalled the shadows in the background. 

He raised the topic Fear, wondering if ever a man was 
born without it. " I was horribly afraid in France,’’ he 
said. 

None of us liked it,’ ’ Michael broke in abruptly. ‘* But 
a man funks it, or he doesn’t—that’s all there is to it." 

His simplicity was of the large order ; he had a single¬ 
ness of purpose, untroubled by the promptings which arise 
from a more complicated attitude towards life than his 
was. 

"Yet there was something in the horror of it that brought 
me back from France hating my kind. . . . Merely a phase, 



MERELY MICHAEL 


17 


and it passes from one,” Bailey added with a dreamy look 
in his eyes. 

Michael had no patience with people who had a tempera¬ 
ment—'liver/ he called it, being troubled with neither 
himself. He was curt in his answer: 

"Others have had their fits of it; but they squared 
their account with death and let it rest at that.” 

Bailey emptied his glass without answering. Suddenly 
he turned to Jimmy. "Why did the other bloke shoot 
himself ? ” he asked, tapping a cigarette on his case. 

The frown deepened on Michael's face; it was so like 
Bailey, he thought, harking back to such a topic as this. 

"You mean the cotton-spinner ? He was mad, of 
course. There was a curious lack of motive, as I have 
told you.” 

Bailey paused with a match poised in his long lean 
fingers. " Ah,” he murmured, " suicide whilst temporarily 
insane—what a convenient fiction with which to veil the 
tragedy of a man's life ! ” 

He stooped and lit his cigarette, then leaned back to 
watch the smoke wreath upwards. 

Jimmy laughed. "Anyhow, as I have told you before, 

I don’t expect a visit from him. He has been comfortably 
tucked away in his grave these fifty years and more. 
Then there was Rupert Mar ley; that belonged to him,” 
and he pointed to the portiere above which a steel breast¬ 
plate shone in the firelight. An old Cavalier headpiece, 
tilting jauntily over it, gave the shadow it enclosed a 
curiously lifelike appearance. 

" He too has been sleeping through the centuries in the 
old family vault below. The Marleys are all good sleepers, 
and he won't waken—unless he should take it into his head 
to pay me a visit up these stairs and through the curtain.” 
Old Jimmy laughed again. 

Psychical research had always been of interest to Bailey. 

B 


18 


MERELY MICHAEL 


He collected data of such phenomena as came his way. 

" One jokes about it,” he said ; “all the same, there are 
baffling problems to be solved. I should say the old hall 
is one of them—I’d like to have the solving of its mystery.” 

“Oh ho!” from Jimmy. “A psychic expert, are 
you ? ” 

“In a sense—yes. But not a spook-shifter.” 

“And yet it terrifies you-” 

“That is part of its charm,” said Bailey with a smile. 

Jimmy stared at him in a puzzled way, then shook his 
head and gave it up. He was sorry, he said, to dis¬ 
appoint Bailey ; but there was a singular lack of mystery 
about the old house. Should anything unusual happen, 
he would let them know fast enough. 

“If you are alive to tell the tale,” Michael suggested. 

Jimmy chuckled. “And if not, then I'd be leaving 
you a nice little problem—in the fourth dimension, let us 
say. For you know, Michael, I’m not the stuff that 
suicides are made of : no more than you are yourself. 
. . . You’d follow on, eh ? ” 

“Yes, we’d follow on, each one of us in turn till we 
laid the ghost—or were laid to earth ourselves.” 

Jokingly they agreed to keep their watch, should any¬ 
thing happen to old Jimmy. 

The wind was rising again. It shrieked down the 
chimney now, and the portiere trembled as though in 
fear. Jimmy rose, selected a large log of wood, and cast 
it on the fire. The brightness died for an instant, and 
the shadows from behind crept forward until the gloom 
invaded all but Jimmy’s chubby, smiling face. 

Michael got to his feet and stretched his great frame. 
The day’s hard riding in the keen air, together with the 
warmth of the fire, were taking their toll of him. 

“I’ll leave you to it,” he said. “It’s me for bed, if 
you don’t mind, Jimmy.” 



MERELY MICHAEL 


19 


Bailey rose and announced a like intention. 

“Well, well,” murmured old Jimmy, “what is the 
present generation coming to ? Just gone midnight— 
whisky in the bottle, a log on the fire. And you talk 
of bed ! ” 

He filled himself a pipe, lit it, and settled down with a 
sigh of content. Michael and Bailey bade him good-night, 
but Dick signified his intention of remaining for one pipe 
more. 

“ That's right, Dick, old boy; keep the old man company 
a little longer.” 

The other two filed out in silence, leaving uncle and 
nephew together. Jimmy’s laugh came echoing down the 
hall as the two passed out of it. 

“Wonderful old boy,” Bailey remarked as Michael 
halted at his bedroom door. “Sitting in that place . . . 
doesn’t know the meaning of fear. ...” 

“ Yes. Well, good-night, Bailey. I’m most infernally 
sleepy.” 

“ I’m glad to get to bed myself. I’ve got a bit of the 
old fever on me to-night, I think.” 

Bailey passed his hand wearily over his face, which was 
very pale. 

“Anything I can do for you, old fellow ? ” 

“Nothing, thanks.” And Bailey passed along to his 
room. 


CHAPTER III 

I have always watched the friendship of Michael and 
Dick with peculiar interest; the two presented so marked 
a contrast in types. Dick, with his irresistible charm, and 
Michael with his quiet and forceful calm. 

Michael was a big man in every sense of the word. His 
strong square face was devoid of good looks, but there 
was something indomitable about its expression, the harsh¬ 
ness of it redeemed by a pair of intensely blue eyes which 
looked at you with so direct a gaze. There was suppressed 
humour, too, about the resolute mouth. 

Dick, on the other hand, was tall and lithe, with a 
boyishly handsome face, full of fire and vitality. His eyes 
were a dark hazel, bright and eager, and with a singular 
mixture of laughter and recklessness in their expression : 
eyes that could blaze into a temper one instant, and 
melt again into laughter the next. Possessed of a dash 
and easy grace, he arrived at excellence without an 
effort; while Michael plodded in his wake, never exceeding 
a mediocrity at games and all that means most to a boy 
at school. Yet Michael persevered grimly and with a 
great-heartedness and an admiration which amounted 
almost to hero-worship. It was touching, too, to note the 
protective side of his devotion for Dick ; it reminded you 
somehow of a great St. Bernard keeping faithful watch. 
And Dick was not slow to avail himself of the other’s 
aid when in a scrape—no rare occurrence with him; for 

the rest, his time was too much occupied for him to waste 

20 


MERELY MICHAEL 


21 


much of it upon one over whom he maintained so easy a 
superiority. But all the time Michael would have given 
the soul out of his body for his friend. 

To travel hopefully may be better than to arrive—when 
you have reached something yourself. But it is not an 
easy philosophy for the mere traveller, and I have often 
wondered just how much Stevenson had accomplished 
himself before arriving at this conclusion. That this was 
Michael's unconscious creed from the beginning I have 
little reason to doubt; but as I watched more closely, I 
gradually became aware of that hidden strength which 
makes “ arrival ” inevitable in the end. 

Michael himself would be the very last to be aware of 
any such thing; he was never the man to stop and con¬ 
template himself, or to take any interest in his own possi¬ 
bilities. He just “ travelled," cheerfully most of the 
way, and with a staying power above the ordinary. 

On the afternoon of the day on which this story opened, 
Michael and Dick were riding slowly back after an ex¬ 
cellent run with the Blankshire Hounds. Dick pulled up 
at the gate of the Vicarage. 

“ Not like the little woman to miss a meet,” he remarked. 
“Besides, she said she would be seeing me there.” 

“Who? ” 

“Esm6e, of course.” 

“ I have not met the lady,” said Michael, “ and I have 
never heard of her before.” 

“Never—heard—of—her—before! You knew the old 
vicar had died ? ’' 

“But not that the new one had a daughter.” 

Dick looked at him and laughed. “ Well,” he drawled, 
“your education has been neglected. ... It is time you 
learned.” 

They found her seated by the fire and alone, save for 


22 


MERELY MICHAEL 


a wire-haired fox-terrier—“ Bill ”—curled up and fast 
asleep at her feet. Bill opened one eye ; looked bored; 
gave a grunt that ended in a sigh, then turned and snuggled 
down to sleep once more. Bill was a dog of one idea— 
his mistress. He had no regard for others, he simply did 
not notice them. 

“Here’s Mickey,” said Dick, with an affectionate hand 
laid on his shoulder. 

She welcomed Michael, stealing a look at him under 
the dark lashes which fringed her eyes. She was sizing 
him up, rather after the fashion of one man for another, 
and her verdict was a favourable one. He had the look of 
a man who could do things and not talk about them. 

A faint smile curved her lips as she caught sight of 
Dick’s face. “Why are you late ? ” she inquired. 

“Late l” 

“Yes, late for tea. . . . You said you were coming to 
tea—or perhaps you have forgotten ? ” 

Dick laughed with his eyes. *' Aren’t girls funny things ? 
Girls are, you know, Michael. Never have anything to do 
with them, my boy.” 

“I’m not going to,” Michael said sturdily, trying to 
feel at his ease. 

She looked at him, then tossed her head as much as to 
say, “ Oh, he’s like that, is he ? ” But aloud : 

“Surely you could not be so unkind ! ” 

Yes, she was laughing at him. He had known it all the 
time, though her face was perfectly grave. ‘Do I look 
as big a fool as all that ? ’ he was asking himself. 

I do not mean to say that Michael was shy. He took 
far too little thought of himself for that. But whereas 
other women failed to interest him, this one with the 
secret laughter in her eyes perplexed him. For the first 
time in his life he had a sense of being cumbersome. 

“Don’t! ” said Dick. “You are frightening him. He 


MERELY MICHAEL 


23 


is like that with women. They scare him. . . . Once 
there was a girl with whom he mustered up courage to 
dance. He has never got over it—neither has she.” 

But Miss Favoril paid no attention to him. “Well,” 
she pursued, “what have you got to say for yourself, Mr. 
Frayne ? Why are you going to have nothing to do with 
us poor women ? ” 

He was one of those men whom it is a pleasure to tease, 
because he would be rather a dear about it. She had 
found that out at once, and she liked him for it. She waved 
Dick aside, and the imperious gesture of her little hand 
was wholly delightful. 

“I want to know just why,” she insisted in a sort of 
coaxing voice she practises when it is her policy to be 
persuasive. If this fails she looks at you very straight in 
the face and shakes her little head at you as much as to 
challenge your ability to oppose her in anything. Self- 
willed—yes, with that mutinous mouth of hers. 

She leaned forward. “Won't you tell me?” she 
coaxed. 

Dick laughed at that. He got in his word at last. * ‘ Tell 
her, Mickey, and begin at the beginning. Make her a 
present of your past, old lad.” 

“Be quiet, Dick, this instant. . . . Now, Mr. Frayne, 
I am waiting. I’d simply adore to hear.” 

Frayne regarded her with a whimsical expression. 
There was a remote smile on his lips which had strayed 
there against his will. He was fighting against it, but it 
broke through as she looked up at him. 

“ I am sorry,” he said, laughing at last. “ I have got 
no past. And I don't want a future either.” 

Miss Esmee’s eyes screw up adorably when she smiles. 
It is the sort of smile that begins delightfully in her eyes 
before it reaches her lips. The most irresistible smile I 
have ever seen in a woman’s face. 


24 


MERELY MICHAEL 


“ So that is your reason, it is ? There/' she said in an 
amused voice, a humorous twinkle in her eyes, “it is a 
good reason, and I won’t tease you any more." 

There was something reassuring about this; and at 
the same time there was a hint of challenge in the depths 
of her violet eyes as she nodded her small head at 
Michael. 

" Don't laugh about it, Esm6e," Dick drawled. “ Michael 
may mistake my solemn warning for a joke. And I mean 
it earnestly. You see, the trouble with Michael is, that 
in his heart of hearts he really entertains illusions about 
women." 

But the girl was paying no attention to this. Tea had 
arrived in the meantime, and her hands were fluttering 
daintily about the silver and the porcelain. 

Michael sat balancing his cup in one hand, looking big 
and uncomfortable. As soon as the girl’s attention was 
diverted he watched her with the large-hearted gentleness 
and wonderment with which some men regard womenkind. 
About women in general he did not trouble much, and 
never had. They frightened him, and when they did 
not frighten they merely bored. 

“ Now," said Dick, “ it is my turn." 

He stirred his tea with one hand and helped himself to 
a sandwich with the other. 

Frayne was glad that Dick was now monopolising her 
attention. He could watch her without being seen: 
the curve of her cheek and the long eyelashes which 
shadowed them ; the nose just a thought tip-tilted ; the 
sweet, full, sensitive lips and the beautiful rounded chin 
which could be soft as well as resolute. 

His eyes followed her movements as she presided daintily 
over the tea-table, and with a self-possession that was 
so childishly natural too. Hers was the vitality of a 
dynamo ; she was so intensely alive as she kept up a running 


MERELY MICHAEL 


25 


fire of repartee, striking many a spark in her piquant sallies 
with Dick. 

Women were like that, Michael concluded. Some of 
them were very wonderful. 

The men rose to take their leave. Turning to Michael, 
she smiled again with that maddening suggestion of hidden 
laughter from the corner of her eyes. 

" You’ve had no time to spare for women, that's why 
you don't understand them," she said. Then: "I hope 
we shall meet again, Mr. Frayne." 

Dick laughed. "That’s right, Esmee. You must 
take him in hand. He wants humanising, does old 
Michael." 

Michael squared back his great shoulders. He gazed 
down upon the absurdity of her with a small, deprecating 
smile. 

Michael was quieter than usual as the two jogged home 
through the dusk. 

For the first time in his life he took the trouble to have 
a good look at himself. He began to regard his lack of 
social accomplishment with disfavour. He had never 
before attempted to conceal his preference for men's 
society or his avoidance of woman's; but he would have 
liked it better now had he borne himself less clumsily in 
Miss Favoril's company instead of giving her cause to 
laugh at him. 

"Damn ! " he muttered under his breath, angered that 
his mind should dwell on such a thing at all. He was plain 
Michael Frayne with his way to make in the world. Merely 
Michael; and without a vestige of romance in his com¬ 
position. Not a thing to worry over, he concluded, be¬ 
ginning to laugh at his own foolishness. He had lived in 
a world of men and of things ; they had more than sufficed 
in the past, and so they could continue to do in the future. 


26 


MERELY MICHAEL 


Presently Dick broke into his thoughts. “She is the 
most adorable thing!” he exclaimed. 

And Frayne was again guilty of asking “Who? ” for 
his thoughts by this time had resumed their old content¬ 
ment—or resignation, whichever you may choose to term 
it. And that certainly did not include anything feminine 
within their scope. 

“ Just the most wonderful,” Dick continued his musing, 
then broke off. “ Of course, you don’t care for this sort of 
talk, and you will think me an ass to enthuse. But, old 
Michael lad, it is worth while living to love a woman 
like that. . . . Of course, women only bore you.” 

“Yes,” Michael returned slowly, “they do. I don’t 
understand it, of course ; but I daresay she is rather 
different from many of them.” 

Dick cried : “Different! Why, of course she is. Be¬ 
cause there is not another like her in the world of created 
things. One day you will find one yourself who is different 
from all the rest, and then-” 

But here Michael’s laugh rang out, large and hearty as 
the man himself. “Maybe. Still, I’ll never understand 
them.” 

“Certainly you won’t, my boy. . . . Women are not 
made to be understood—but to be loved.” 

“ And she loves you ? ” 

“Haven’t spoken to her yet. But I’m hoping.” 

Watching the handsome, boyish face, and the striking 
grace and ease of him, Michael knew that his friend’s 
success was assured, and he was glad. 

“I’ve got to speak to old Jimmy first,” Dick explained, 
his face clouding over. 

Michael grunted. “Nothing to stop you there, old 
fellow.” 

“ I’m not so sure about that. All I’ve got in the world 
I owe to old Jimmy. ... He is the best old boy in the 



MERELY MICHAEL 


27 


world, and has never denied me anything. But there is 
a streak of hardness too. A man who has battled his 
own way as he has must have a bit of flint about him 
somewhere. . . . 

“Haven’t you seen that for yourself, Mickey? You 
remember that scrape I got into during our second year 
at the ’Varsity ? Old Jimmy nearly jibbed then—said 
he would if it ever happened again. And you hewed 
a way out for me in that calm, solid way of yours-’ ’ 

“ But what has that got to do with it now ? Do you 
mean-” 

“Yes,” said Dick, the light and laughter gone from 
his face, “ I have got into another mess—a pretty damnable 
one this time.” 

He paused a moment and waited; then the appeal in 
his eyes yielded to a flash of anger. Michael’s impassivity 
and slowness of speech affected him like that at timer ; he 
was all nerves and springs himself. 

“Oh, don’t look so smug about it! ” he raged. “It 
was before Esmee came into my life, and it is only a money 
difficulty, after all. But,” he added, gnawing at his lip, 
“it is bad enough, in all conscience.” 

“Tell me,” said the other curtly. 

And Dick told. 

It was the old story—living far beyond the generous 
allowance his uncle made him. But that was so like Dick, 
whose need was ever the need of instant things. 

I have often thought the fault lay largely with Jimmy 
himself. He had made a friend of Dick, taking a huge 
pride in him, but without that touch of discipline which 
the lad’s headstrong nature demanded. Dick was warm¬ 
hearted as ever a man was, generous to a fault, and he could 
have been guided by these qualities he possessed. Be 
that as it may, it is a fact that Dick had never in his life 
been made to count the cost of things. 




28 


MERELY MICHAEL 


Probably he had never taken the trouble to ascertain 
how deeply he was in debt—or, for that matter of it, that 
he was in debt at all—until the bank enlightened him. I 
can quite picture it all: selling a hunter here, or a polo 
pony there, and so elated with his economy that he had 
bought a new car costing more than all of his horse-flesh 
put together. And so on, in a blissful disregard of the 
future, until a fresh crop of bills rolled in. The gift of 
living for the present was his, and he had cultivated it to 
a nicety. But with all that, as I have said before, he would 
more than share his last crust with you—he would give it 
all to you. 

“I got into the clutches of a money-lending tout/* 
he explained to Frayne, “and now I don’t know what to 
do about it—damned if I do.” 

Michael answered firmly: “You can’t straighten the 
thing out until you face it. . . . There is only one thing 
to do: make a clean breast of it all, and then tell him 
of your hopes with regard to Miss Favoril.” 

Dick, he felt, so easily put things from him. 

Dick gave an odd little laugh. “The only thing!” 
he echoed. “My dear man, you don’t know what you 
are talking about.” 

“Perhaps not.” Michael was roused for an instant 
from his customary imperturbability. 

“The fact is . . . You see, it is like this. There was 
a fellow I knew in France. Not the sort of bloke one meets 
ordinarily about town, but he looked me up in the club 
one day. It was when I was getting to my wits' end. 
He was a smart sort of lad who seemed to be doing un¬ 
commonly well, and to know his way about the city— 
that sort of thing. Well, the long and the short of it is 
that he told me of an * All British Development Company ’ 
—a new concern, and he said he could get me in on the 
‘ground floor.’ ... I think that is the precise phrase 


MERELY MICHAEL 


29 


he used. Anyhow, it sounded an impressive sort of thing 
to me.” 

Dick paused, and then, smiling ruefully: “I only had 
to pay a shilling in the pound on allotment ; and the 
company would be booming before the first call came 
along.” 

Michael groaned. The old flat-trap laid to catch such 
fools as Dick. He was frowning and wondering why Dick 
had not come to him about it before, then he recollected 
how their paths had grown apart after demobilisa¬ 
tion, Dick’s leading him into a social life of ease and 
affluence, while his own had been that of toilsome 
activity. 

“H’m ! ” he snorted. 

“What ? ” 

“Nothing. Merely murmuring aloud my thoughts. 
... You amazing ass ! ” he added, a set look on his 
face. 

“Oh, quite so,” Dick agreed affably. “Well, then, you 
see, I bought all the shares I could at a shilling in the 
pound.” 

“You would! ” 

“ I did. And I borrowed to buy more. Then the slump 
came, and the Development Company went to the 
devil." 

“Of course. . . . The only development it ever con¬ 
templated was an early call on that nineteen shillings in 
the pound.” 

“However did you guess, Mickey ? ” 

“H’m! The thing was an obvious ramp from the 
start.” 

“Do you think it was ? ” 

Michael gave a short laugh. “Do I think? ” he re¬ 
peated. “No, I don’t. I know. . . . Only the few flats 
could have failed to see that.” 


30 


MERELY MICHAEL 


Dick’s face fell. “Then there is no use holding on ? ’’ 
he questioned. “The shares will never recover? ” 

“Not a chance of it. Not a ghostly! I’m sorry, old 
fellow, you’ve got to face the music now. The only thing 
left is to make a clean breast of it all to old Jimmy. He’ll 
come round, I know. He’s fond enough of you for 
that.’’ 

Dick walked his horse on for a few paces, and in silence. 
“But I’ve not told you all yet,’’ he said at last in a low 
voice. 

Michael stared at him a moment. “Then,’’ he said 
slowly, “in Heaven’s name get to the end of it! ” 

“I wish to God I had come to you long ago, Mickey. 
You could have kept me out of this mess.’’ 

“I wish to God you had. But you didn’t. . . . 
Well ? ’’ 

“I had to pay up, you see. So-’’ Dick hesitated 

a moment, and when he continued there was a note of 
shame in his voice. Michael’s heart went out to him at 
that, but there was not a trace of feeling on Michael's face. 
“So I pledged with that money-lender—my reversionary 
interest in old Jimmy’s estate.’’ 

That stirred Michael out of his immobility. “God! ” 
he muttered under his breath. With all his resolution, 
he would not have cared to have faced Jimmy with a 
thing like that. It was not so much the vein of hardness 
he would have feared as the thought of the old fellow’s 
unfailing goodness and generosity. And he knew it was 
that which smote on Dick’s conscience now. 

“Whatever am I to do ? ’’ 

“I don’t know,’’Michael answered, and lapsed into a 
silence. The truth of it was that for once in his life Michael 
hesitated, having regard to all the circumstances of 
the case. 

Dick writhed under the silence that had fallen upon 



MERELY MICHAEL 


31 


the other. “For God’s sake, say something! I can’t 
stand your silence now.” 

“I really don’t know what to say.” Michael was 
frowning. 

“It’s the devil,” Dick assented. “The very devil.” 

They rode on for a while in silence. 

Suddenly Dick reined in his horse. “Michael,” he cried, 
“I’ll tell him all . . . and I’ll tell him at once.” 

That, too, was like Dick. To make up his mind in a 
flash about a thing over which he had wavered for days, 
perhaps, and then to put it into immediate execution. His 
was not the fortitude that waits to win, but rather the 
reckless dash that carries all before it where a sheer per¬ 
sistence might stop just short of success. 

Gone was all his weakness of the moment before. When 
Dick spoke like that, Michael knew that he meant 
it. 

“ Do you know what I think he will do ? ... He will 
pay off the score, and cut me adrift. Then it will all come 
to you. . . . And that’s why I don’t mind so much, old 
Mickey.” 

Michael, frowning to conceal the love in his heart for 
Dick, muttered: “Don’t be more of an ass than you 
can possibly help. . . . What about Miss Favoril ? You 
are forgetting her. No, don’t tell him yet, Dick. We’ll 
find some other way out. Give me a chance to-night to 
think it over.” 

Dick shook his head. “ Good old lad ! ” he murmured. 
“You have never failed me yet. But I have made up 
my mind this time. I’m for it alright—it is the only 
clean way out. I’ll take what's coming to me. I’ve 
earned it, Mickey.” 

He had cheered up wonderfully now that he was com¬ 
mitted to immediate action. The old boyishness had 


32 


MERELY MICHAEL 


returned to him and the old gay challenge to Fate was 
shining in his eyes once more. 

Michael's mien was uncompromising as ever, yet there 
was something about him, all the same, which suggested 
that protective attitude towards Dick. As a matter of 
fact, he was mustering all his powers to dissuade the other 
from his intentions. 

"You are forgetting Miss Favoril," he repeated 
doggedly. 

But to this Dick paid little heed. "Not a bit," he 
answered. "We will clear out to Canada together, or 
to Rhodesia. Any old place where we can make a fresh 
start. Old Jimmy hewed out a way for himself. So will 
I. And I'm not so sure that I’ve much use for a post-war 
England these days." 

"Yes, but Jimmy did not drag a woman with him 
through all his hardships." 

"You don’t know anything about women. They 
don't stick at anything, once they care for a fellow." 

"I should have thought-" Michael began in his 

slow way, and stopped. It had not occurred to him that 
a man would avoid anything to make such a woman 
happy. His knowledge of Dick fell short of a complete 
understanding. 

But an onlooker is able to see more deeply below the 
surface, and so to focus Cause and Effect in their proper 
perspective. In Dick I see a man who all his life has 
been accustomed to service from others ; willing service, 
and even sacrifice which familiarity and a lack of personal 
vanity (as in Dick’s case) took for granted, little thinking 
of what it cost in the giving. Not selfishness so much as 
use and custom. 

Yet Michael, who would willingly have given his own 
life for Dick, had to set his teeth to maintain a silence 
when he thought of what Dick was ready to exact from a 



MERELY MICHAEL 


33 


little fragile woman whom it befitted a man to carry 
over all the rough places. 

Returning to Marley House, they found that Bailey 
had arrived, so Dick’s confession was delayed some 
hours. 



C 


CHAPTER IV 

Michael was usually one of the soundest of sleepers, but 
when he got to bed that night he found that sleep had 
altogether left him. 

First it was the wind ; it had risen swiftly and was 
rattling the windows in their casements like a bundle of 
old bones. Then it went tearing round the gables, shrieking 
like a lost soul as it passed, and ending in a moan. Some¬ 
where a long way off a door banged. But it was the 
windows that brought Michael out of bed ; he could stand 
the torment of them no longer. He picked up a shoe¬ 
horn from the dressing-table and muffled the noise of 
one of them by wedging it, but the others only seemed to 
rattle the louder. He stood for a while shivering in the 
dark, and looked out across the park on which his bedroom 
fronted. 

The clouds were racing across the moon, casting weird 
shadows about the old house. A tiny lake in the distance 
shone like silver among the trees, but the loom of the 
avenue was like a black vault threading its way into the 
night. The old yew hedge was bending its sable plumes 
to the gale ; then suddenly the moon was blotted out and 
there was nothing left but the darkness and the wild 
sounds of the night. 

Michael returned to bed again; there was warmth 
there, even though sleep eluded him. He tossed about 
from side to side. He counted innumerable sheep jumping 
over endless fences, but sleep had utterly forsaken him. 

34 


MERELY MICHAEL 


35 


So he gave it up at last, and let his mind become peopled 
with other thoughts. He recalled Dick’s words as they 
jogged home from the vicarage together in the waning 
light, and he lay and wondered what the outcome of it 
all might be, hoping against hope what all would be well, 
yet with an unaccountable dread at his heart. 

Sleep did not come to him until the early hours of the 
morning; and when it did he fell into a slumber full of 
troublous dreams. 

The sun was streaming into the window when he was 
aroused by a hand shaking him roughly by the shoulder. 
It was Dick who stood at the bedside, a fixed look of 
horror in his face. 

“ Michael! ” he cried, “ Michael! ” 

And Frayne was up in an instant, flinging the bed¬ 
clothes from him and staring at Dick through the sleep 
in his eyes. 

“What is it? ” 

“Old Jimmy is dead—shot through the head. ... He 
is dead, I tell you.” And Dick breathed as though he had 
been running hard. 

Michael stood perfectly still, his every movement 
arrested. “Dead?” he echoed. “Old Jimmy dead? 

. . . How do you mean—dead ? ” 

He was trying to get a grip of his thoughts, and to focus 
them on something less abstract, less unthinkable than 
this; but another glance at Dick’s face brought home to 
him the whole ghastly truth. 

And then came the breathless explanation. 

Peters had awakened Dick to say that he had been to 
call the master at seven o’clock as usual. He had knocked 
at the door and got no answer, turned the handle and found 
the door locked. 

Slipping into some clothes and returning with Peters, 


36 


MERELY MICHAEL 


Dick had rapped at the door, and still no answer. At last 
they had broken their way in, to find the room empty 
and the bed not slept in. Then it had occurred to Dick 
that his uncle often sat up reading in the old hall and 
might have fallen asleep there, so he had questioned Peters. 
But Peters had not been there to see. The two had then 
passed down into the hall below. And there they had 
found old Jimmy, seated in his chair, a Colt pistol on the 
floor where it had dropped from his dead hand. 

“Then,” Dick ended in a hoarse whisper, “I locked 
the hall door behind me and came for you.” 

“God! ” Michael’s strong face quivered, and without 
another word he hurried on with his dressing. 

There was a deep silence, while Dick sat watching in a 
curiously vacant sort of way. Suddenly his face went 
livid, he swayed a little in his chair; and Michael, who 
had seen the like once before when Dick had been knocked 
out at Ypres, crossed to the dressing-table and got out 
his flask. 

“Drink this,” he said in his curt way, and poured out 
a good stiff glass of brandy. “Now tell me,” he added 
slowly, for he knew there was more yet on Dick’s mind. 

A little colour had returned to Dick’s face ; he spoke 
in a dull, quiet voice : “I feel,” he said, “that it is I who 
have been the cause of his death. You know I told him 
all about it last night. ... He was dreadfully upset, I 
could see that. But, Mickey, there was not one word of 
reproach. That’s what made it so much worse for me— 
that, and the suffering in his kind old face. If it had been 
a less thing he would have gone for me about it. . . . 
God ! I wish he had. But it was too bad for that; it sort 
of stunned him at first. His eyes hardened a bit after 
that—you know the way they had at times. . . . 

“ * Leave me now,' he said. ‘I will think it over and 
answer you in the morning . 1 ... By God, he has ! ” 


MERELY MICHAEL 


87 


"Oh/’ Dick cried, "that look of disappointment on the 
old fellow's face ! It is haunting me, the way he looked 
at me first, Mickey, as though hope in life had left him. 
• . . And this is his answer. This ! " His voice choked. 
He pressed both hands over his eyes. 

"None of that, Dick," Michael said sharply, almost 
roughly. "You have got to keep a stiff upper lip and 
see this thing through." 

He was dressed now. He walked to the door and 
opened it. 

" Come l " he said. 

Dick rose slowly to his feet, his eyes meeting those of 
his friend in a mute appeal. "Where to ? " he breathed. 
But without another word, he followed the other out of 
the room and down the passage which led to the old wing. 

Old Jimmy was in the big chair by the fireplace. His 
body sagged forward in that sprawling, almost ludicrous 
attitude of death. 

Michael stood staring at him for a moment. He was 
conversant with death—in France—but the sight of old 
Jimmy dead, and in such a fashion, that was different. 
Jimmy, who had been mother and father as well as friend, 
a man he had loved and looked up to for as far back as 
he could remember, and to whom he owed all he had in 
life. 

He stood very still with his head bowed. Suddenly he 
snatched up a white table-cover and shrouded over the 
poor head so ghastly now in its disfigurement. The Colt 
lay where it had fallen on the floor, and the dead man's 
hand hung limply over it. 

" God rest his soul! " he said simply, in a low voice. 

He glanced at Dick, and the next moment had gripped 
him firmly by the arm. 

"Dick, old boy," he muttered, "remember—a stiff 


38 


MERELY MICHAEL 


upper lip. It is a big thing we have got to face, both 
of us.” 

He turned at the sound of a soft footfall. It was Peters, 
who had approached silently from behind, the perfect 
impassivity of his countenance unchanged, as if the muscles 
of his face had attained such a perfect rigidity through the 
years of servitude as to render impossible the slightest 
variation of expression even on the Day of Judgment. 

Bailey, who had come up behind Peters, said very 
softly: “I have just been told about it.” There was a 
shrinking horror in his eyes as they rested on the shrouded 
figure. “It is awful,” he murmured, moistening his lips 
with his tongue. “Awful!” 

A silence fell—a curious, waiting silence while no one 
stirred. Peters cleared his throat as though to speak, but 
he did not look up. He had a watchful way of glancing 
from the corner of his eyes, even when his gaze was directed 
on the ground. 

It was Frayne who made,the first move. But he 
hesitated a moment, looking at Dick before finally taking 
over charge. 

“Peters,” he said, his mind made up, “go at once, 
please, and ring up the police. Has the doctor been sent 
for ? Well, then, telephone to him as well, and acquaint 
him of what has happened, and ask him to come along at 
once. . . . You understand, Peters? ” 

“Yes, sir.” And with one more sidelong glance at 
the body of his late master, Peters vanished. 

Dick Marley, aroused as one awakening from a dream, 
moved towards the pistol and stooped to pick it up. 

“ Don’t ! ” cried Frayne, and the other asked what he 
meant. “ Because nothing must be moved until the police 
have seen it. I mean just that, Dick.” 

“ But it is suicide. There can be no question of—any¬ 
thing else. . . . What are you thinking of ? ” 


MERELY MICHAEL 


89 


“ Nothing. . . . Only everything must be left just as 
it is. 

The portiere swayed forward and caught Frayne's eye. 
He stepped across and pulled it back, peering into the 
conservatory below. The door, he saw, was open. Then 
he remembered the lock was with the carpenter for 
repairs. 

“We must have that lock replaced at once," he re¬ 
marked. He caught a glimpse of Dick's face and added 
more gently : “ Will you go and see about it now, Dick ? 
Get a wedge or something to close it with in the meantime, 
and send down for the carpenter. . . . And just see if 
Peters has done what he was told." 

Anything, he felt, to give Dick something to do and 
keep his mind occupied. 

“Very well." And Dick turned to go. 

“I'll come with you," said Bailey, and at that Dick 
halted. 

“ Do you mind ? " he queried. 

“Mind what ? " 

“Being left—like this ? " 

“Alone? , . . No," Michael answered slowly, “I will 
wait here until you come back. But you had better have 
some breakfast first, and after that you can relieve me." 

As he moved off, Bailey shot a glance behind him in 
that quick, nervous way he had. Then the door closed, 
and a great silence fell upon the old hall. There was no 
wind, just a dead calm morning following on the night's 
storm. 

Michael, as he told me afterwards, had never before 
in his life felt so much alone as he did at that moment. 
Even in broad daylight the brooding gloom of the place 
descended like a pall. And in the silence he caught himself 
listening—for what he knew not. 

It was partly the strain of inaction which led him to 


40 


MERELY MICHAEL 


investigate, but with caution, so that nothing might be 
disturbed. And all the time he vaguely sensed a force 
that seemed to be directing his every action. 

He remembered the secret panel in which the pistol 
had been kept, and he moved across the alcove to examine 
it. After some searching he found the spring and pressed 
it. The cavity in which the pistol had lain was empty. 
He thought of the dead fingers that had last rested there, 
and suddenly he shot back the panel into place ; but as 
he did so a ray of sunshine fell on the wood directly, and 
something caught his eye, causing him to stoop and examine 
the surface of the wood more carefully. 

Yes, without a doubt there was an indentation where 
the wood had been pressed by some sharp instrument, 
and recently. There were other marks too, and over a 
fairly large surface. How were they come by ? he won¬ 
dered. Someone knowing the secret of the spring, but 
blinded by the stress of a strong emotion ? Or someone 
aware of the spring’s existence but not quite familiar with 
its actual position ? His attention became concentrated 
on the question to the exclusion of all else. He had that 
power of detachment which is the strength of the strong, 
that quality which can brush aside all other issues and 
concentrate solely on essentials when the time for action 
has come, a power latent in the man, and one which the 
war had developed to its full and which had been responsible 
for his rapid promotion to command in the field. 

“Now, that’s funny,’’ he said, arguing it over with 
himself. It set his mind running on a new train of thought, 
while little dreaming of the road he would have to travel 
before he should arrive at the end of all his wondering. 

There were, he concluded, signs of a frenzied hurry on 
the panelling. And thinking of James Marley as he 
knew him, the question kept recurring: Could such a 
man commit suicide under any circumstance whatsoever 


MERELY MICHAEL 


41 


—a born fighter to the last ditch ? It is inconceivable, 
he said to himself. And even if Marley could be brought 
to such a pass, Michael knew him well enough to realise 
that he would have set about it with the utmost calm 
and deliberation. No temporary insanity about old 
Jimmy, and no fumbling for a spring he knew the secret of. 

Then-? It must have been the work of one whose 

design it was to give the semblance of suicide to murder. 
As he reached this point in his chain of reasoning, a great 
anger seized upon him. 

“Suicide!" he muttered aloud. “Jim Marley’sway 
was never the coward’s way." It was treachery even to 
think it of him. Murder, that’s what it was. And there 
in the presence of the dead he registered his vow to carry 
on until the mystery should be solved, and the name of 
his dead friend cleared. His thoughts went back to the 
talk of the night before, and in particular to those joking 
words of old Jimmy: “And if not . . . you’d follow 
on ? " Whether in jest or earnest, and whatever the 
agency of death might be, they were pledged—all three— 
to carry on. 

Michael was a journalist by profession, and all his 
instincts of inquiry were aroused. He examined the 
ground carefully; but there was nothing within the 
alcove or in the hall itself to reward his search. He 
descended the short flight of stone steps to the conservatory 
below. 

It had been a north-easterly gale that had sprung up 
the night before. It was still bitterly cold; snow had 
fallen and frost had crisped it over when the wind fell. 
The door, which was slightly ajar, had jammed on some 
unevenness of the floor, so that the wind could not thrust 
it further open. The Chubb lock had been removed for 
repairs. So that was all there was to be found there. 

He passed out into the shrubbery of yew trees, centuries 



42 


MERELY MICHAEL 


old, draped now in a mantle of white with a margin of 
green appearing wherever the overhanging branches 
afforded shelter. No footprints there ; but as he returned 
to retrace his steps, something sm all and white lying on a 
patch of green caught his eyes. He picked it up and 
found a half-smoked cigarette. 

Michael examined it closely: the paper was quite 
fresh ; plainly it must have come there after the moisture¬ 
laden branches were frozen dry. There was the maker’s 
name on it; it was an Italian brand and one not seen in 
England. 

It was an old fad of Dick’s, the importation of new 
and strange cigarettes, and the subsequent infliction of 
them upon his friends while he himself passed on to some 
still more novel brand. But this particular cigarette 
was of a make which Michael could not recollect having 
seen Dick smoke so far. What instinct moved him at 
the time, he could never tell; but without another 
thought, he slipped the half-smoked cigarette into his 
pocket, casting a swift glance round him as he did 
so. 

There was no one in sight, yet he could not rid himself 
of the furtive feeling his action had engendered. 

Probably, he surmised, the cigarette had been dropped 
by the carpenter, who was of Italian origin—at least, if his 
name went for anything. But could it be so ? The 
cigarette showed no signs of moisture, and there had been 
a rain preceding the snow after the carpenter had finished 
his work and left for the night. He was glad now that 
the cigarette was in his pocket, and safe from prying eyes ; 
and as he remounted the steps into the old hall, the dread 
in his heart deepened and assumed a more concrete shape 
and form. If, he concluded, the theory of suicide was 
rejected, the alternative was—one of murder. Dick was 
the last person known to have seen Jim Marley alive ; 


MERELY MICHAEL 


43 


there was motive enough, too, should everything come to 
light, as now seemed certain. 

But here Michael called a halt on his thoughts, though 
with something of an effort. “Pshaw!” he muttered, 
frowning to himself, “I am growing imaginative and 
nervy.” 


CHAPTER V 

Returning to the old hall, Michael walked to the window 
and looked out, his mind busy with thoughts of the tragedy, 
and an ever deepening sense of oppression taking hold 
of him. Presently he heard footsteps approaching; the 
door opened and Dick appeared, followed by Bailey and 
one whose face Michael had not seen before. 

“Michael,” said Dick, “this is Dr. Capper. I don't 
think you have met before.” 

The doctor shook hands in a fussy, pompous sort of way. 
“ I am a newcomer to Marley Pryors,” he explained. 

Then Michael remembered that the old doctor he had 
known there, with his old-fashioned remedies and his old- 
fashioned courtesy, had gone to his last account. The new 
world against the old, he thought, as he summed up 
Capper—a fussy efficiency against the old-world ease and 
dignity. 

Dr. Capper was a man of round stature, with a large 
head set far back on his neck like a vulture’s. He wore a 
black overcoat, black tie, and spectacles, through the un¬ 
usually thick glasses of which his cold green eyes fastened 
on Michael like a pair of large and over-ripe gooseberries. 
He was a small man with a minute mind and a large 
notion of his own importance. And without further 
ceremony he proceeded to uncover the poor still figure of 
Death. 

There was something in his manner of doing it that 
caused Michael to bite his lips and turn away. Old Jimmy 

a * 


MERELY MICHAEL 


45 


to be subjected to such a handling, much as though he 
were an anatomical specimen ! The sordid aspect of it 
filled Michael with a sort of fury, directed in particular 
against the small man of science so full of his own 
importance. 

"H’m . . . h’m! " the doctor exclaimed, clearing his 
throat in an irritating way he had, and which further 
increased the natural antipathy he had already aroused. 

"You see," he proceeded didactically, as though he 
were addressing a class of students, " you see how curiously 
far back the wound is situated on the cranium." And he 
touched, in his ghoulish way, the red, gaping hole in poor 
old Jimmy’s skull. "And you will note also, gentle¬ 
men," he went on with much pomposity, "the awkward 
angle at which the pistol must have been held for the 
bullet to trace this line through the brain and to emerge 
here." With a singular lack of delicacy, he turned the 
head to one side to indicate the spot. 

"Now I have seen more than one suicide by shooting 
in my time," said the doctor, striking an attitude by resting 
a hand on his hips and perking his head at his audience. 
"The method most commonly adopted is that of resting 
the barrel close behind the ear; or against the temple; 
or, again, by thrusting the muzzle into the mouth. An 
easy, natural position like any of these ’ ’—each one of 
which he had further elucidated by a pantomimic accom¬ 
paniment. "But this is different. . . . Yes, gentlemen, 
I should say that this is not a case of suicide at all." 

He paused to give full effect to his dictum, while he 
subjected each of the men in turn to a glitter from his 
spectacles. 

"It is just possible," he pursued, "that such a bullet 
wound could have been self-inflicted by an unnatural 
straining of the muscles of the arm and neck. But it 
would be wholly unnatural—so unlikely, in fact, that I 


46 


MERELY MICHAEL 


should have no hesitation in looking for the cause of death 
to a hand other than that of our poor dead friend here. 

"Now we will see what more the body has to tell us. 
Of course the post-mortem will follow later, but in the 
meantime we shall—h’m, h’m—see what we shall see, 
and without unduly disturbing anything before the police 
arrive upon the scene. Nothing disturbed up to now ? " 
he demanded abruptly. "Very well. Ha, h’m! . . . 

"The first thing we notice is the position of the right 
hand above the pistol. Assuming that the deceased had 
placed himself in such a strained position as to be able to 
fire the pistol at this unusual angle, then his arm would 
never have fallen back again into its present position of 
rest. . . . And then the pistol itself must have landed 
some way behind its present situation on the floor." 

He was kneeling on the ground as he spoke, peering up 
at the body from all angles, making measurements with a 
tape he had produced from his pocket, and comparing 
relative positions. Suddenly he drew himself up, directed 
a gaze of ill-concealed suspicion on each of the men in 
turn, and delivered himself thus : 

"Murder, that’s what it is. Nothing short of murder. 
And murder is what I shall maintain it to be through 
thick and thin, in face of any theory of suicide, or such 
fiddle-faddle as may be adduced by anyone." 

So saying, he pulled out a little note-book as black and 
bloated as himself, wherein he proceeded to enter up his 
notes. He closed it with a most aggressive snap, then 
surveyed the three men before him as though calculating 
the "drop " required by each. 

"Good-morning," he said. "We shall meet again 
shortly. . . . And nothing must be disturbed until the 
police have made their investigations. . . . Ha, h’m! " 
and he was gone at a brisk gait from the room. 

"Little beast! " Michael exclaimed. 


MERELY MICHAEL 


47 


Still, there was no denying the mental acumen of the 
little man, nor the determination to maintain his own 
opinion, just because it was his own. Certainly a man 
who could carry no small weight with a jury, Michael 
thought, judging from experience gained in the course of 
his journalistic work ; and he wondered how a man whose 
manner spoke rather of a rough practice in the East End 
of London should have drifted into the by-waters of a sleepy 
old village like Marley Pryors. 

Shortly after the doctor’s departure the village con¬ 
stable arrived, and was left in charge. Bailey set out for 
a walk in the park, while Frayne followed Dick, who had 
gone to his room. 

Dick was staring out of the window in blank misery 
when Michael entered his room. “My God,” he cried, 

‘ ‘ if only I knew he had died forgiving me ! . . . But this 
is too awful, Mickey.” 

Then he set to and paced the floor, up and down, 
up and down, and the quivering of his face showed some¬ 
thing of what he was passing through. He smoked in¬ 
cessantly, lighting one cigarette after another and casting 
them from him before they were half smoked. They left 
a curious pungent fragrance in the room, and Michael 
asked where they had come from. 

“Italy. Why?” 

“They smell to heaven, old boy,” the other answered 
with a levity in his voice that sounded forced to himself. 

‘'They smoke alright,’’ Dick responded gloomily. “Try 
one. You will find the case over there by the mantel¬ 
piece.” 

Michael crossed the room. He opened the box indicated 
in his slow, deliberate way and took out a cigarette, keep¬ 
ing his back turned to Dick as he did so. There was 
a tightening of the muscles about his mouth when he 


48 


MERELY MICHAEL 


read the name and knew it to be the same as that on the 
half-smoked cigarette he had just picked up in the shrub¬ 
bery. He thought for a moment, then turned on his heel 
and walked to the window. It gained him time for re¬ 
flection. 

'‘Well, what do you think of them ? ” 

“Awful.” 

Michael had his back still turned to Dick. He felt 
the mystery thickening around him ; his mind was groping 
in a darkness peopled with suspicions which kept thrusting 
forward, and which he would not acknowledge even to 
himself. 

There followed a silence. Then suddenly he turned 
and glanced at Dick—old Dick whom he had known all 
his life and loved for his hot-tempered faults and his 
weaknesses, as for his generosity and charm. Dick’s eyes 
met his with the same frank fearlessness as ever, and the 
darkness lifted from Michael’s mind. 

‘ ‘ Well ? ’ ’ impatiently. ‘ ‘ What is it ? I always know 
it means something when you look at me like that. I 
know that old dour stare of yours.” 

“Nothing. It was only these cigarettes of yours. Slow 
poison, that’s what they are. . . . But tell me, Dick,” 
he said, “all that passed between you and old Jimmy 
last night. I feel I’d like to know. And it may help you, 
though it may hurt in the telling.” 

Dick seated himself on the bed, his hands clenched, his 
eyes on the ground. A minute or two passed, then he 
began in a voice that wavered now and then : 

“There is not much I haven’t told you of already. . . . 
Old Jimmy began by saying there was something he 
wished to talk over with me, and was glad of having the 
present opportunity. This was before I got a word in 
of what I had to tell him. I had to wait for that till 
afterwards. . . . 


MERELY MICHAEL 


49 


'' He left me for a moment while he went up to his room 
for some papers in the safe which stands near the bed. It 
turned out to be the draft codicil of a will, and he wanted 
to ask my opinion on certain changes he contemplated. 
You remember di Conti died about a year ago, and shortly 
after that his only son died in the war. The provision 
made for that old scoundrel and his son was a fine bit 
of generosity on Jimmy’s part after the treatment he 
had received at their hands and the threats they had 
kept on hurling at him for years past. But now that 
both were dead he was making up his mind to disinherit 
any heir or heirs more remote. And in the past year he 
had had more than enough provocation for that. Only in 
that dear intimate way of his he thought he would like to 
talk it over with me first. It made it all the harder for 
me, Mickey. All the same, I managed to stick to it, and 
I told him of the terrible mess I had landed myself in—and 
all about it. . . . 

“For a bit he sat quite silent; then he picked up his 
will. ‘I have a mind to change it at once after this,’ he 
said. I thought then that my surmise was correct, that 
he was going to disinherit me. And upon my soul I was 
glad, Mickey, for somehow it made me feel a shade less 
mean. But no, for he continued : * I think now that I 
shall have to tie up your portion in such a way as will 
prevent you from squandering it all when I am gone. 
I am sorry, Dick. . . . But there, leave me now; I will 
tell you of my decision in the morning.’ That was all, 
Michael, save for the look on his face which was worse 
than anything else. . . . 

“I said good-night, but he made no answer. So I left 
him seated in the alcove, staring into the fire. And that 
was the last I saw of him until this morning.” 

Frayne’s face was very grave when Dick had finished. 
There was a grim look about his lips as he made some 

D 


50 


MERELY MICHAEL 


excuse and left the room. On his return he found Dick 
standing near the window, examining a pistol in the light. 

" What are you doing with that, Dick ? ” he demanded. 

Dick gave an odd little laugh. " I am not going to do 
away with myself, if that’s what you mean. I was seeing 
if the pistol was alright. It was the one I had with me 
in France. It had rusted badly and I had sent it to be 
overhauled. It only came back from the gunsmith’s 
yesterday. ...” A sigh escaped him. "It is a Colt, 
too. . . . Old Jimmy gave it to me when I left for France. 
I think he bought one for himself at the same time. The 
one that he-” 

But Michael interrupted with a frown. "Well, don’t 
leave it lying about. Better give it to me to look after 
for you.” 

The other caught fire at that. "My dear Mickey,” he 
drawled, in a manner forecasting a storm, "don't be quite 
such a damned ass. I am not going to shoot myself, I 
tell you. Though the good God knows it is what I’d like 
to do well enough. But there is Esm£e, for one thing. 
... I shall speak to her some day soon—I must.” 

Yes, there was Esm£e. But it looked to Michael as if 
that ‘someday ’ were not so near as poor Dick imagined. 

It is a strange thing how, when a deadly peril arises, 
the person most endangered by it is often the last to be 
conscious of it. 

"All the same, please let me keep it for you, Dick,” 
said Michael. 

But Dick flung back his head defiantly. "No,” he 
answered. 

Michael’s firm jaw grew firmer; he would have his 
way, with or without Dick’s consent. But as he came to 
this decision, the uselessness of such a course occurred to 
him. It would not be long before the gunsmith’s book 
disclosed all he tried to conceal, and the mere attempt 



MERELY MICHAEL 


51 


at concealment would only make it so much the worse— 
if it were ever to come to that. 

"Is it clean now ? “ he asked, taking it up and looking 
down the barrel to satisfy himself of that. “Well, don’t 
go about with it loaded, that’s all I ask.’’ 

But Michael’s heart was heavy as lead. The net of 
circumstances was drawing closer, and he was resolved to 
put into immediate action a suggestion that had recurred 
to him more than once since that terrible awakening. 


CHAPTER VI 

It was early forenoon. The sky was a cold blue, dotted 
here and there with fleecy clouds floating like round white 
balls of wool. The tree-tops shone rosily in the morning 
sun. 

Michael set out at a rapid pace ; he was making for 
the village to send off a telegram which he wished to 
despatch himself. He had need of a walk, too, to think 
things over and to arrive at a clearer perspective. The 
exquisite freshness of the morning air made the mere act 
of living a joy ; but the faster he went the more thickly 
did the cloud of depression settle down upon him. 

He branched off from the main road on a short cut to 
the village. It was a forest path, dim and full of shadows 
where the morning sun had not touched it. But even in 
the shade there was a growing softness in the air. A 
thaw had set in, and the thin coating of snow was rapidly 
clearing off; the frost had gone out of the ground. There 
would be rain again before night, Michael reflected, sensing 
the dampness in the air. 

The world was very still; moisture from the trees fell 
with a melancholy drip-drip on the soft powdery soil 
underneath. There was not a breath of air within the 
forest. Smoke from a distant clearing lay in long straight 
streamers at the height of a man’s head from the ground, 
the greyness of it turning to a powder-blue against the 
green of the pines wherever the sunshine came slanting 
through them. 


62 


MERELY MICHAEL 


53 


But Michael walked swiftly on, conscious of none of it, 
and still wrestling with the grim foreboding which invaded 
his thoughts. He was approaching the main road which 
led into Marley Pryors, when the muffled sound of a horse’s 
feet beating on the turf behind brought him to a stand¬ 
still. He wheeled round to listen, and presently there 
appeared the figure of a girl on horseback, cantering up the 
glade. 

The figure was rapidly overtaking him ; there was no 
avoiding it, and Michael’s frown deepened. He had no 
wish to have a woman breaking in on his thoughts ; nor 
was he in the mood for polite persiflage with any girl. 

A small gloved hand waved a hunting-crop in greeting, 
and a moment later she had pulled up her horse alongside. 

“Well, Mr. Frayne.” Her voice challenged him, and 
there was a hidden laughter in it, as though such men as 
Michael afforded her some infinite quiet amusement. 

The sunlight gleamed on her dark hair, crowned by a 
wide-brimmed hunting hat; there was an engaging frank¬ 
ness about the girl’s face, its round childishness at variance 
with the wilful little chin. And her eyes—well, they were 
eyes which could put a spell on you even if you were a 
woman. 

“Good-morning,” he said, a gruffness in his voice. He 
kept pace with her as her horse moved on at a walk. He 
was at a loss what to say. “Been out riding ? ” he asked, 
after a silence. 

She smiled down at him coolly, regarding him from 
the corner of her eyes. “Of course,” she said. Then 
noting his troubled frown, her face grew grave. “Where 
is Dick this morning ? ” she asked suddenly. 

Michael took his time to consider the situation. He 
was a reserved man, especially where women were con¬ 
cerned, and it was hard for him to tell her of the tragedy 
that had happened. But she ought to know—would 


54 


MERELY MICHAEL 


know sooner or later. Perhaps he had better get it over 
at once. He still hesitated. 

They were passing the constable’s cottage, where a knot 
of women were gathered together in the trim little front 
garden, talking. 

“Good-morning, Mrs. Stubbs; you are having a nice 
little gossip, I see. So early in the morning, too ! ’’ And 
Miss Favoril addressed the constable’s wife in that tone 
of easy banter and gaiety which was peculiarly her own. 

“ Dearie me, miss, and have you not heard ? " returned 
the old dame, hastening to the gate with a triumph in 
her eyes, and her voice lowered to suit the solemnity of the 
occasion. 

But Michael intercepted her: “Don’t stop to listen, 
Miss Favoril.’’ He spoke in a low voice, but his words were 
nothing less than a command, his awkwardness slipping 
from him like an ill-fitting mask. 

“Keep your horse at a walk. I’ll tell you about it as 
soon as we get out of earshot. Come . . . ’’ he said curtly. 

Miss Favoril turned to Mrs. Stubbs. “Not this morning, 
thanks,’’ she said with a friendly nod and a smile, and the 
constable’s wife had to smile back and retire, hiding her 
discomfiture with the best grace she could muster. 

Then Miss Favoril, leaning forward a little, studied 
Michael's face more closely. The laughter had died out 
of her eyes. 

“Well? ” she said, when they had progressed a few 
yards. “I am waiting for an explanation, Mr. Frayne." 
And she spoke a little coldly. 

So he told her what had happened in the old hall, break¬ 
ing it to her as gently as might be, but without a trace 
of feeling. There may have been the * thousandth man ' 
to whom he could have shown his feelings ; but certainly 
not to a woman and a stranger. 

“Oh, I cannot believe it! ” she cried, then fell very 


MERELY MICHAEL 


55 


silent for a while. “And Dick—how dreadfully he will 
be feeling it. ... I must go to him. . . . " Her voice 
was vibrant with feeling, and there was a shadow of con¬ 
tempt in the glance she rested on the cold mask with 
which Michael hid all traces of emotion. 

“Do you know,” she added presently. “I don’t believe 
Mr. Marley could commit suicide. No, he simply couldn’t," 
and she gave a little shiver. “Everyone loved him—he 
was such a dear. . . . What do you make of it, Mr. 
Frayne ? " 

“I really don’t know what to think. It is all so very 
horrible." 

She reined in her horse at the vicarage gate. “I wish 
there was something I could do to help. But you know 
how sorry I am." 

He nodded. 

“And I will help," she went on. “I am not such a 
little fool as you think, Mr. Frayne. Truly I am not." 
And she was gone before he could make reply. 

The sky grew overcast. Rain began to fall by the time 
Michael got back to Marley. 


CHAPTER VII 


I should like to mention here that Michael had chosen 
journalism as a profession on leaving the 'Varsity. The 
war had interrupted his work, but he returned to it in 
preference to the military career which his good work in 
France had opened out to him; largely, I fancy, because 
he had set his hand to the other, for he is one of these 
men who must see a thing through once he has started it. 

Slowly, doggedly, he was engaged now in forcing his 
way to the front rank with an imperturbable calm that 
was backed by a belief in his own powers. The little that 
he was beginning to make at his work would not have 
sufficed even for his simple tastes, had it not been for 
the generous allowance which had to be almost thrust 
upon him by Jim Marley, who had brought him up since 
early boyhood. And, as it turned out, Marley had left 
an ample provision in his will for Michael Frayne, the 
motherless son of a dead friend. 

It was with a view to helping Michael in the course of 
his journalistic work that I had first introduced him to 
Robert M'Kerrel, of Scotland Yard, a man I have known 
and admired over a long stretch of years. Despite their 
disparity in years, the two had struck a chord in common, 
and an acquaintanceship sprang up which fast ripened 
into friendship. Then the war had been the cause of 
further cementing the tie between the two men. For 
M'Kerrel had a son in Michael's platoon—excellent lad he 
was, too, and one of whom his father was justly proud. 


MERELY MICHAEL 


57 


Well, Michael had managed to get the youngster out of 
an exceedingly tight corner—or it pleases old M’Kerrel 
to think so, if Michael’s version of the fighting is to be 
preferred. And M’Kerrel is not the man to forget. 

Old Bob M’Kerrel, we have been friends for long, you 
and I, and each year has drawn us closer. At each sight 
of your broad honest face I arrive at a juster appreciation 
of the finer shades and subtleties of a character that is 
as a finely-tempered steel inlaid with gold. 

M’Kerrel long ago told me the simple story of his life, 
and I have since journeyed with him to the croft in the 
Outer Hebrides where his early life was spent. Destined 
for the ministry, by which I mean the Free Kirk of Scot¬ 
land, the money required for his college course was raised 
through the joint efforts of the family, the brothers by 
their manual labour and the girls by going into service. 
Nothing unusual about that, but rather a time-honoured 
custom of the country, fostered by the ambition to see 
one of the sons in the pulpit. Robert had the brains of 
the family, and the choice happened on him; that was 
all, and nothing more to be said about it. After a brilliant 
career at college, he was faced with the crisis of his life. 
The * call ’ had not come to him in the spiritual sense of 
the word, for there were certain doctrines of the Kirk 
to which he could not honestly subscribe, and his was too 
profoundly sincere a nature to conceal the fact. There 
was nothing left for him but to renounce all thought of 
the Church ; yet I can well imagine the struggle between 
conscience and sentiment which his strong soul must have 
endured before he had to disclose the truth to the members 
of his family who had pinned their hopes on him. But 
he went through with it, witnessing their anger and dis¬ 
appointment and finally their repudiation of him, before 
setting out to carve a career for himself in his dour deter¬ 
mination to repay them in the end. How he first took to 


58 


MERELY MICHAEL 


writing, failed and failed again ; how he drifted into the 
police force and hewed his way from the bottom rung 
to the position he now holds, would suffice to fill a book 
in itself. 

And now, as I write, he is nearing the top of the tree. 
Honours await him in the near future, but plain Bob 
M'Kerrel he will ever remain in his own simple estimation. 
He has vindicated himself many times over in a worldly 
sense, and has repaid his family tenfold in a monetary one. 
So at last they have taken him back, though grudgingly, 
and with a backward glance of regret at the ministry lost 
to them in him. Year after year he spends a portion of 
his holidays in a croft of his own, coat off and working 
with the best of them. And despite the fame and the 
position he has won for himself, I verily believe there are 
no happier hours than these in his life. I have put it to 
him, but he only laughs and shakes his head. But I 
have journeyed with him to his home ; I have watched 
him at work and I know. 

So much, then, for the record of Robert M’Kerrel, and 
if I have digressed unduly it is because I would have 
you know what manner of man he is. But to return : 

It had come as a sudden inspiration to Michael to tele¬ 
graph to M’Kerrel. He saw they were only at the be¬ 
ginning of a big thing, and in his trouble he felt the need 
of such a friend. It was fortunate, too, that he tele¬ 
graphed when he did, for M’Kerrel happened to be in the 
Yard at the time and free to take a run down to Marley 
himself, instead of deputing a junior, as would otherwise 
have been the case. 

“Had you delayed,’’ he remarked later to Michael, 
when they were alone together, ‘/it would have been too 
late, as it turned out. A big case came in after I left the 
Yard for the station. I doubt if I would have been at 


MERELY MICHAEL 


59 


liberty to come to you had I not got away in the nick of 
time. Now I’m here I can have a good look round before 
returning. And then I’ll send you down the best man we’ve 
got to carry on.” 

“That was a lucky shot of mine. It was very good of 
you to come yourself, Mac. I realised how much I was 
asking of you at the time. . . . But I can't explain—it 
came over me in a flash that it was the thing to do, and 
I did it. I felt I just had to know what you thought of 
it all at first-hand. And yet I am not fanciful as a rule. 
Everyone says I have no imagination, and they are right, 
of course.” 

M'Kerrel laughed. “There is such a thing as flair — 
whatever that may be. Anyhow, it is no bad substitute. 
Man,” he said in his dry way and lapsing familiarly into 
his mother tongue, ‘ * you have got a common-sense, reason¬ 
ing mind. The natural sequence of cause and effect 
comes to you of its own accord ; you would be nothing of 
a journalist had you not got that. Imagination may 
enable a man's mind to leap several steps in advance of 
yours, but as often as not it confuses issues and diverts 
from essentials.” 

The theorising of these two, dealing chiefly with crimin¬ 
ology and incentives at work in the human mind in general, 
has always been of interest to me as being that of men 
of a sound, practical mind by nature. Then he has a 
pawky way of putting things, has old M’Kerrel. His iron- 
grey, shaggy brows give his eyes that skye-terrier look, and 
his honest eyes twinkle humorously at you from underneath. 

M’Kerrel had arrived at Marley early in the afternoon. 
“Mr. Frayne and I have met before,” was all he said, 
and Michael left it at that. The other two had no inclina¬ 
tion to re-visit the scene of the tragedy, so it fell to Michael's 
lot to accompany his friend alone. 


60 


MERELY MICHAEL 


There was a Celtic strain of sensitiveness about M’Kerrel 
which all his service in the detection of crime could not 
obliterate ; the way in which he touched the dead was 
an evidence of this, and all the more when compared with 
the doctor’s handling. He was not long over his task, 
but seemed to take in the whole situation at a glance. 
Michael showed him the secret panel, pointing out the 
marks on the wood, and M’Kerrel agreed at the conclusions 
arrived at. 

“We may be able to obtain some finger-prints here,” 
he observed. 

Then Michael had to confess, to his own mortification, 
that he had been fingering it since. “Confusing the 
issues, as you might say.” 

“Eh, man, but that’s a pity.” M’Kerrel’s speech 
broadened out. “Never mind,” he added, with a kindly 
glance at his friend’s face. “We’ll have a good look 
round, and maybe we’ll come on something yet.” 

When he came to the pistol he drew a piece of chalk 
from his pocket, and kneeling on the ground, he carefully 
marked the position. Then he picked up the weapon and 
examined it closely. 

“A ‘380 Colt,” he observed. “And one cartridge 
missing from the magazine. . . . The barrel recently fired 
through,” holding it to the light and squinting through it. 

He carefully replaced the pistol in its place and stood 
up, shifting from one place to another so that he might 
sum up the situation from various angles of vision, and 
measure relative positions with his eye. 

“Aye,” he mused, half to himself, “yon doctor-man is 
no far wrong. I’ll be thinking the same thing myself— 
that it is just murder and nought else.” 

Then, aware of the question forming on Michael’s lips, 
he continued, his broad Doric dropping from him like a 
glove : 


MERELY MICHAEL 


61 


“ I met the doctor on my way up, and he gave me the 
outline of the case as far as it went. I knew him when 
he practised in the East End of London, and this is not 
his first connection with a murder case by a long way. 
The East End is more in his line than a country practice ; 
he came here for his health, so he tells me—and between 
you and me, there may be truth enough in that, for he 
has been making a hot corner for himself here and there 
with his meddling ways. Talk of a hanging judge—well, 
that’s a hanging doctor, if you like. For he is out to 
hang anyone so long as his own deductions are proved 
correct; and I am bound to say that his theory is seldom 

at fault. Mention the word ‘suicide ’ and he will bark at 

* 

you. But now let us see all we can before it gets too 
dark.” 

M’Kerrel examined the alcove carefully, stopping for a 
moment at the portiere, and peering through it to the 
conservatory, below. Next he moved slowly across the 
hall, his glance travelling round the walls at some height 
from the floor. He was speaking his thoughts aloud : 

“The murderer used his own pistol. He crept up and 
overpowered his man from behind. . . . Then he fetched 
the other pistol from the secret panel, and placed it on 
the floor. But, man, he did not choose the right position. 

. . . Before placing it, he must have fired a shot to foul 
the barrel, supposing the pistol was clean, as it must 
have been. Then there should be the mark of the bullet. 

. . . Ah,” and he pulled aside a curtain from one of the 
tall narrow windows and pointed to one of the diamond 
panes that was missing. 

“That’s it, is it? He broke it clean away and fired 
into the open. Do you happen to know if this pane was 
missing before ? ” 

“I cannot say. All the curtains were drawn last 
night.” 


62 


MERELY MICHAEL 


“And did no one in the house hear the sound of a 
shot ? ” 

“No. I have asked all the servants the same question. 
I was awake for a long time myself and heard nothing 
but the wind. It was blowing half a gale, and the old 
wing is well removed from the rest of the house, as you 
can see.” 

“And who knew of this secret panel besides the 
deceased ? ” 

Michael considered the question carefully, then replied : 
“I cannot tell, of course, all who were aware of it. The 
village carpenter for one, probably, as the lining of the 
cupboard is of recent origin. And I have a theory about 
that which I want to tell you of after you have finished 
your inspection. . . . It will soon be dark.” 

The other eyed him keenly for an instant. “Yes,” he 
agreed, “let us get through with it. After that, friend 
Michael, you will tell me just what is in your mind.” 

He returned to the alcove, busying himself with his 
note-book ; and Michael could see he was making a sketch 
of things. That done, he descended into the conservatory 
and out by the door and into the shrubbery in the midst 
of which the old family vault stood. 

The thaw was complete, though the rain had now eased 
off into a drizzle. There was no trace of snow left save 
for a few small patches of white, and the yew branches 
dripped sadly as the damp breeze shook them. M’Kerrel 
examined the ground with minute care. 

“Nothing here,” he muttered. 

“No foot-marks after last night’s touch of frost.” 

“You had a look round this morning before the rain ? *’ 

“Yes,” said Michael, moving off towards the door. 

M’Kerrel next turned his attention to the conservatory, 
and in particular to the stone staircase which led to the 
fatal room above, examining each step in detail with a 


MERELY MICHAEL 


63 


small torchlight he had with him. He no longer spoke 
his thoughts aloud. As they re-entered, Michael wedged 
the door shut behind them, mentioning that the lock was 
with the carpenter for repairs—a fact of which M’Kerrel 
seemed to take small note. 

"Well,” he said, as they stood in the old hall once 
more, "there is not much more we can do here to-night. 
I confess myself baffled. The solution is not going to be 
so simple as I had thought at first. I am glad you sent 
the telegram which brought me here, Michael, because 
it is the occasion of seeing you again—perhaps, too, of 
being of some small assistance to you before we are through 
with it. And also because of the curious interest of the 
case itself. . . . 

" The murderer ought to have entered by the conserva¬ 
tory door, and up these stairs. Every probability points 
to that. Look here,” and he pointed to the buttress wall; 
"he had simply to creep quietly round this, and through 
the curtain without being seen ; then to press the pistol 
against his victim’s head. You see, the deceased’s back 
is turned to anyone who would be coming round the 
corner ; and that, again, coincides with the angle at which 
the pistol must have been held, the point of entry being 
far back on the head, as the doctor remarked. 

"And yet,” he pursued, his bushy, iron-grey eyebrows 
meeting in a frown, "the murderer has left not a single 
trace behind him—either of his entrance or of his exit. 
Curious, that! It is during the get-away that the careful 
criminal most often leaves a clue—something dropped, 
something moved and not replaced. And in murder you 
are most often dealing with the amateur in crime, a sudden 
murderous instinct followed by a terror of the deed when 
a man is not the master of his actions. But here he has 
covered up his tracks. That is what leads me to think 
it must be one of these systematised crimes carefully 


64 


MERELY MICHAEL 


planned beforehand ; or else it must be the work of a 
madman—and such cases, as you know, are always the 
most difficult of detection. . . . You went over the 
ground carefully before I came ? And you found— 
nothing ? ” 

Frayne thought for a moment before answering. 
“Nothing/’ he said at last, “to throw a gleam of light 
upon the case.” 

M’Kerrel shot another searching glance at his friend. 
His lips moved as though he would speak; but, instead, 
he turned in silence and passed within the alcove. 

There was a heap of ashes fallen from the grate. M’Kerrel 
stooped and commenced patiently raking in it with his 
finger. 

“Paper ash,” he muttered, continuing to work his way 
methodically through the heap. Near the foot of it his 
search was rewarded by two small unburnt fragments. 
Both were of stout parchment paper; one of them was 
blank, but on the other was the portion of a word, ‘ queath.’ 

“That is all there is,” said M’Kerrel, “but it is worth 
keeping.” 

He placed it carefully within a fold of his pocket-book 
and turned to go. 

The sky had clouded over. The room was growing 
darker. Shadows crept up in that curious way they had 
in the old hall, as though they crowded in to listen. Once 
on his way to the door M’Kerrel threw that swift, almost 
involuntary glance behind him, as though the place had 
left its impression on his mind—that awareness of what 
had been, and was to be. 


CHAPTER VIII 


Peters was serving tea when Frayne and M'Kerrel joined 
the others. Shortly after that, M’Kerrel questioned the 
servants, and when he returned all four sat round the fire 
for a while and talked. 

Michael said, turning to Dick: “I think it would be 
as well now if you told M’Kerrel certain incidents in the 
past life of Jim Marley, for they seem to me to have a 
distinct bearing on the case.” 

They were seated in the dining-room round the table 
where they had gathered the night before. And strange 
it was to be gathered there again, this time to solve the 
mystery of one who had been the life and soul of the party 
only the night before. M’Kerrel was seated in the chair 
which poor old Jimmy had occupied, with Michael on one 
side of him and Dick on the other. 

“Phew! it’s a cold night,” said Bailey, moving his 
chair up to the fire and holding out his hands to the blaze. 

“Fever coming back? ” Dick queried. 

“Probably,” said Bailey, leaning back and staring into 
the flames. 

Dick opened his cigarette-case and handed it to M’Kerrel, 
who shook his head. “If you don’t mind, I’ll stick to 
the pipe,” he replied with his slow smile. 

“Well,” Dick began, “I think Frayne is right, Mr. 
M’Kerrel. It would be as well for you to know all there 
is to know. . . . But you had better tell him, Mickey. 
You are a better hand at that sort of thing than I. Any- 


66 


MERELY MICHAEL 


how you ought to be, who are by way of being a news¬ 
paper man.” He looked across at Michael with a wan sort 
of smile. 

Michael nodded assent. “You see, M’Kerrel, it is like 
this,” he began. “Jim Marley made a large fortune out 
of a silver-mine in Australia. He and my father were in 
Melbourne together when they heard rumours of silver 
in what was then the * Never-Never * country. So they 
got an outfit together, and invited a mining engineer 
whom they knew—Gabriel di Conti by name—to join in 
with them. My father died on the way, after suffering 
many hardships, but the other two struggled on. They 
seem to have got out of their reckoning, for the journey 
took them much longer than anything they had counted 
on, until one day they found themselves left with barely 
enough food to last out even if they turned back at once. 
Added to this was the difficulty of water. They had got 
into a trackless desert where the existence of water-holes 
had to be taken more or less for granted, and the failure 
to strike them risked. Here the Italian’s courage failed 
him and he begged Marley to turn back. But Marley 
was not that sort. He refused to return before reaching 
a distant range of hills they were heading for, and which 
now appeared dimly in a purple haze. The upshot of it 
was that they agreed to divide the supplies and part 
company. 

But remember, * said Marley, ‘ if I strike the mine 
and live to return, you will have forfeited your share of 
anything that’s coming out of it.’ He was not going to 
risk his life to make the fortune of any Dago, as he said 
afterwards. And it was here that the first * yellow streak ' 
in di Conti appeared, for he tried to barter his so-called 
rights for a half of old Jimmy’s share of the food, 
apparently thinking that his own share might not be 
enough to see him safely through on the long trail back.” 


MERELY MICHAEL 


67 


“I never understood why my uncle listened to the swine 
at all,” Dick broke in hotly. “But the fact remains 
that he did. At least, he agreed to play di Conti at poker, 
staking the half of his own food ration against the other's 
claim on any possible find; only not a drop of his water 
supply would he surrender. . . . Well, he backed his luck 
in a gamble with death—and he won, hands down. He 
would never have got back alive, had he not fallen in with 
a party of pioneers on his return journey. Of course di 
Conti was in a frenzy when he heard of what turned out 
to be an amazingly rich find. First he tried for a share 
of the claim by whining; but my uncle wasn’t having 
any of that. Then di Conti threatened, and I believe it 
ended in Jimmy giving him a dashed good hiding.” 

“Don’t forget,” said Michael, “the subsequent threats 
of murder and instant death, if half the fortune were not 
surrendered. They were kept up for years; and, of 
course, their only effect was to stiffen Jimmy’s resolution. 
I wonder if he kept any of these letters ? ” 

“Not he,” Dick replied. “He chuckled over them, 
and into the fire they all went—as far as I know.” 

Michael frowned at this. Was it not the reason, he 
suggested, for Marley’s keeping his pistol handy ? Dick 
had forgotten about that, but he supposed it must have 
been so, for his uncle knew it had become a sort of mania 
with di Conti. Certainly it was not because of any belief 
in the haunted reputation of the old hall. 

“My uncle told me,” he continued, “that di Conti 
had died, leaving what he persisted in calling his share 
in the mine to his next-of-kin by way of an heirloom—a 
sort of family vendetta. In his last letter, written on 
his death-bed, I believe, he laid a dying curse on Jimmy, 
and he enjoined it upon his family to be the instruments 
of Fate, if they were not granted their rights. This took 
place about a year ago.” 


68 


MERELY MICHAEL 


M’Kerrel turned to Frayne. “This is what you were 
referring to when you mentioned the Italian connection ? ' * 

Frayne nodded. 

“Have you searched your uncle's papers? ” M’Kerrel 
next asked of Dick. 

“No. He kept them all in a safe in his bedroom. 
The keys must still be in his pocket. I forgot to take 
charge of them/' he explained, in answer to M’Kerrel's 
look of surprise. 

“Here they are. I took them over." And Michael 
handed them to his friend. 

M’Kerrel was filling his pipe afresh. He pressed down 
the tobacco with his thumb carefully and said: “You 
were the last to see your uncle alive, Mr. Marley ? ’’ 

Dick nodded. 

“And was there anything in his manner then which, in 
your opinion, could conform with the theory of suicide ? 

I mean, did he seem agitated about anything ? ’’ 

A slight tinge of colour came into Dick’s face. “ I— 
don’t know,’’ he hesitated, his eyes seeking Michael’s. 
“That is to say, I could see nothing in his manner to 
indicate it.” 

* ‘ But something on his mind that was perhaps causing 
him anxiety ? ’’ 

As he spoke, M’Kerrel was carefully balancing his pipe 
in one hand and a match-box in the other, seeming most 
intent on their proper poise. 

“Yes,” Dick admitted, “there was.’’ 

“Sufficient to lead him to seek his own death, would 
you say ? ’’ 

“I—don’t know. But how can a man tell what is in 
another’s mind? ’’ Dick demanded with a rising colour. 

M’Kerrel lit his pipe with extreme precision, and only 
when it was drawing to his satisfaction did he answer. 

“That’s very true,’’ he said. “Well, Mr. Marley, I’ll 


MERELY MICHAEL 


69 


have a look at the safe, if you don’t mind. And after that 
I’ll be bidding you good-night.” 

It was M’Kerrel himself who opened the safe. Noticing 
the curious way in which he did this, and the care he took 
not to touch it with his fingers more than he could help, 
it occurred to Michael that M’Kerrel intended to try for 
some finger-impressions there—a surmise which he later 
found to be correct. 

There was very little in the safe. Some £yo in gold, 
and a gold watch. And lastly, some legal documents in 
two bundles, the elastic band round one of which was 
broken and had the appearance of having been broken 
quite recently. This was the bundle containing Marley’s 
will. 


CHAPTER IX 

M’Kerrel had returned to Marley Pryors. A busy man, 
he had yet managed to spare the time, ostensibly in order 
that he might go into matters on the spot with Jacobs, 
the inspector whom he had brought down to continue 
inquiries officially. 

It was late in the afternoon when he arrived at the 
Marley Arms ; and as he had to return the following day, 
he had written to Frayne asking if he could join him at 
the inn before dinner, as that would be their only chance 
of meeting alone. 

He had sent Jacobs out to pursue certain inquiries in 
the village, and was alone when Michael arrived. He was 
looking tired and out of spirits, but he was plainly pleased 
to see his friend. 

*' Have a drink ? ” he said. “ Do us both good—though 
I don't think much of the whisky they keep here. Man, 
you’ve got to go to parts of Scotland if you want to know 
what real whisky means.” 

They sat and smoked, and were uncomfortably silent 
for a spell, each instinctively knowing the reason of the 
other’s reluctance to begin. 

‘‘Well,” M’Kerrel said at last, ‘‘what’s your news, 
Michael ? ” 

And Michael woke out of a brown study. “None,” he 
answered gravely, and waited. 

“And you think the Italian may have had a hand in 
the murder ? ” 


70 


MERELY MICHAEL 


71 


Michael said he did; he noted that there was not a 
thought of suicide left in M’Kerrel’s mind. 

“ Basing your theory on the fact that a certain Gabriel 
di Conti wrote threatening letters, and is alleged to have 
passed on a blood feud on his death-bed to his next-of- 
kin ? ” 

The keen eyes searched Michael’s face earnestly from 
under their grey bushy eyebrows. 

“Then there is the village carpenter—Mongini. Ob¬ 
viously of Italian origin. Of course I know it is far¬ 
fetched, but remember this, Mac: that carpenter must 
have known of the secret panel. ...” 

“Aye.” The Scot nodded his head encouragingly. 
“And I’ve got Jacobs out now, following up the trail of 
your carpenter. . . . Anything else ? ” 

“Well, for another thing, he was the man who removed 
the lock of the conservatory door just before poor Marley 
met with his death. I think I mentioned this to you. . . . ” 

“H’m,” said M’Kerrel in his noncommittal way, 
“there’s more than love that laughs at locksmiths. Nothing 
very conclusive about that, friend Michael.’’ 

“ And there’s more than that,’’ continued Michael. 

But he stopped suddenly as though his mind had changed 
about something. M’Kerrel’s eyes were sharp as gimlets. 
His intuition was almost uncanny at times. It was a 
small thing for him to see that Frayne had not completed 
the sentence that had first been on his mind. But he 
offered no comment, and Frayne continued : 

“Jim Marley was a just man, but he was one to hold 
what he had and to bequeath it after death according to 
his lights. The present will was made about a year ago, 
after di Conti’s death, I think. In this he leaves his money 
to Dick, with a handsome bequest to myself, and certain 
legacies—a substantial one of £ 2,000 to Peters, by the 
way. If Dick should die without issue, then a portion is 


72 


MERELY MICHAEL 


bequeathed to charity and the remainder to myself. 
And failing Dick or myself inheriting, one half goes to 
charity and the other to di Conti’s heirs, should any of 
these present themselves. He was not driven to this by 
threats, mark you ; but out of the generosity of his heart, 
leaving something to the di Conti family in absence of 
those he considered had the prior claim on him. You see, 
Dick is the last of the old line of Marleys; there are no 
distant connections left.” 

"One moment. You say Marley made this will after 
di Conti’s death. Does that mean there was an earlier 
will, bequeathing a portion to the di Contis, irrespective 
of circumstance ? ” 

"Yes,” said Michael. 

"Now it is you who will inherit the major part of a 
large fortune in the event of young Marley’s death ? ” 

"Yes,” Michael returned, "that is just the point. 
Assuming the di Conti connection to be responsible for 
the murder, it is all to their advantage now to get Dick 
out of the way.” 

" And then they have only to dispose of you ? ” 

"Exactly. And there is more to it yet. For after di 
Conti's only son was killed in the war, one of the others 
took up the feud and threatened Marley more vehemently 
than ever. Marley got his back up at that and had a new 
will drafted whereby no portion of his estate should go 
to any of them under any circumstance whatsoever. I 
have it from Dick that his uncle showed him the draft 
of that will on the very night of the murder, and discussed 
the matter with him. ... Now what do you make of 
that ? ” 

M’Kerrel thought for a moment. "Is that draft will 
in existence ? ” he asked. 

"No; it has disappeared.” 

M’Kerrel sat silent, stroking his chin thoughtfully. 


MERELY MICHAEL 


73 


“ Well, ’ * he said at last, ‘ ‘ it cuts both ways, as it happens. * ’ 
But more than this he would not say. 

Then after another silence: "There is another point. 
How could your theoretical di Conti be posted up in all 
this, which is after all 'inside information ’ ? " 

And Michael answered to that: "Through someone 
who had furnished himself with a duplicate key to the 
safe." 

Again it was Mongini who was in his mind as he spoke, 
a fact which did not escape the other’s attention. 

"Aye," was all he said. "So that is the clue you’re 
working on ? . . . Mind, I’m not saying it is not a good 
one, though it wants a lot of linking up. And I don't 
see how you could do better than work out your theory; 
for, right or wrong, you've got to choose a course and stick 
to it in that dogged way of yours. It may be all wrong 
—and that means failure. But you’ve got to work on 
something, and—you've got to get busy. Have you 
started yet ? ” he asked abruptly. 

And Michael shook his head. 

Without another word, M'Kerrel pulled out a piece of 
paper, wrote on it, and handed it to the other, saying: 

"Here is the name of a man who will be of assistance 
to you. He is a private detective, and the best man you 
could have for a job of this sort. Tell him I sent you. 
And," he added, shooting a meaning glance at Michael, 
"tell him to get busy." 

"Why, Mac—what do you mean?" 

"Just what I say." 

It was not the dramatic instinct which delayed M’Kerrel 
in finishing what he had to say. He had a great notion 
of the fitness of things, and the orderly sequence which 
should lead up to a climax, step by step, while omitting 
none of the essentials by the way. Once that climax was 
reached, he would shut up like a book, and that was 


74 


MERELY MICHAEL 


another reason why it was never wise to hurry him out 
of his gait. 

A vague dread of what that climax must be had been 
weighing on Michael’s mind from the beginning; it had 
become a living fear now. 

"But there is nothing else to it, M’Kerrel," he essayed, 
pausing to watch the effect of his words. "Either it is 
suicide, or else it is murder. If the latter, then we have 
got to look for the murderer from among the di Conti 
crowd. There is not a ghost of a motive elsewhere." 

M’Kerrel sucked hard at his pipe and stared into the fire. 
"I’ll be thinking there may be a motive nearer home 
than that, Michael boy," he said gently. "To come to 
actualities—what then ? " 

"You mean that . . . that . . 

"Aye, I mean just that." 

And then Michael knew. 

"I have got to arrest him to-night—certain facts have 
come to light which I cannot discuss at present. Man, 
I’m sorry. ... You had better break it to him yourself. 
Get it over as soon as you return. Have some dinner, 
then I’ll be up at the house at eleven o'clock and motor 
him along myself. It will be quietest that way." 

A silence fell between the two friends. There was 
nothing Michael could say. He had felt the blow im¬ 
pending, and he saw now that M’Kerrel had seen through 
him from the start. 

"You see, young Marley was the last to see his uncle 
alive. And they have been finding plenty of motive up 
in London. There's a lot of things fit in. . . . Aye, and 
more's the pity. But ‘a stout heart for a stey brae/ as 
we say in Scotland. You will find in Kelly one of the 
sharpest brains in the country, with just that touch of 
imagination which you yourself lack. A psychologist in 
crime is what he styles himself. He’ll let you work with 


MERELY MICHAEL 


75 


him, what’s more. Only, mind this, he is a little man, 
and touchy as the devil in the little things. But once he 
has taken on your case, you can trust him absolutely. 
Tell him all, that is my advice to you. ... You can tell 
him more, perhaps, than you have told me." And he 
said this with a meaning smile. Then he added: "So 
you and he should get on fine together; what the one 
lacks the other has, and vice versa. And that is all I can 
do for you in the meantime, Michael—except to cheer you 
when I can. . . . And now you’ll be wanting to go back 
to your friend." 

He rose and held out his hand. 

Michael took it and wrung it warmly. " Mac, you're a 
pal," he said simply. 

"Away with you, man ! It’s just nothing." 

"You are trusting me a lot." 

"No," replied M’Kerrel stoutly, "I have told you 
nothing that you did not know yourself. Good-night," 
he said, opening the door for Michael to pass out. 

M’Kerrel’s was a face cast in a rugged mould; but 
behind it was masked a world of kindly feeling. The 
mask fell as the door closed upon his friend, and a great 
pity shone in his eyes. 


CHAPTER X 

I have known them both since boyhood and have recog¬ 
nised this distinction between Michael and Dick from the 
beginning, the development of which I have watched 
with considerable interest until the character of each has 
become permanently moulded : that Michael was driven 
by his nature to pursue to its end whatever he had once 
set his hand to, and with a great disregard of the lesser 
issues; formed of a tougher fibre than most, he was a 
man who knew how to wait, and not anticipate, whereas 
Dick was a man who might not pursue a thing to its final 
issue, if the pursuit were long; for his was the need of 
instant things. But then you never quite knew with 
Dick, and probably he did not quite know himself at 
times. To this extent he was the victim of his own 
temperament, which might take him unexpectedly at any 
moment and lead to unlooked-for results. But there 
again, to some extent, lay his charm. 

Michael hurried back with a misgiving that grew at 
every step; due not only to the threatening cloud of 
danger, but also to that unknown quantity which he had 
always vaguely sensed in Dick. Hot-blooded and reckless 
he knew his friend to be, and hasty at the first sign of 
restraint; yet he could not be quite sure just what would 
happen now, or how Dick would take what was coming to 
him. 

There was a man loitering about the lodge gates. He 

76 


MERELY MICHAEL 


77 


was in plain clothes, but there was no mistaking his calling 
to Michael's experienced eye. So already the net had 
closed down on Dick! And when he recalled M’Kerrel’s 
advice to get busy, Michael's blood ran cold; M’Kerrel, 
he knew, was not the man to give such a hint lightly. 

Dick was in his room, smoking and staring moodily 
into the tire when Michael got back. The air was thick 
with smoke, and the hearth was littered with cigarette- 
ends, and the heavy, peculiar fragrance of this particular 
tobacco assailed the nostrils unpleasantly to one just 
entering from the fresh night air. 

The box lay open on the table ; Michael crossed and 
picked it up, frowning at the thought it recalled. 

Dick asked him what was the matter ; Michael did not 
answer at once, but made pretence of sniffing at the 
tobacco, pulling a wry face over it as he did so. 

“Does Mongini supply you with these?" he asked 
suddenly, glancing across at Dick. “The sort of thick, 
black thing that the Italian workman would smoke." 

“Not a bit; they are the most expensive things in 
cigarettes I have smoked. You could not buy them at all 
in England. I have had them imported direct from Italy." 

Michael pulled out his pipe, filled it, and got it well 
going. And all the time his mind was working in ever- 
widening circles round the one central fact, and he was 
more glad than he had ever been of anything that he 
had concealed the cigarette-end picked up near the con¬ 
servatory door. But how close a thing it had been ! 

Odd the triviality of chance that directs a man’s destiny. 
It is only in years to come that you can trace the stream 
through all its windings, up to the very source, and then 
what a tiny bubble of water Fate springs from ! But it 
was not so much the thought of this in which Michael’s 
mind now dwelt as he stood perfectly motionless, his eyes 
riveted on his friend’s face. 


78 


MERELY MICHAEL 


A log had crackled into a living flame, lighting up the 
features which were turned towards it; new lines were 
visible, and a look of tragedy in the handsome face, from 
which all the youthfulness was gone. Michael, who watched 
it, was conscious of a sudden fear. 

Suddenly Dick turned, aware at last of the other's 
scrutiny. “What is it?” he queried. “Why do you 
look at me like that ? ” 

Michael’s eyes dropped. 

Then Dick did a curious thing. He rose suddenly and 
walked close up ; then he bent down and stared into 
Michael's eyes. 

“You may have the face of a sphinx,” he said, “but I 
know there is something wrong when you look like that. 
. . . Tell me. Tell me, Michael,” he repeated, gripping 
his shoulder tightly as he spoke. 

Their eyes met, and in an instant the fear had gone out 
of Michael’s heart, leaving a sense of shame that it should 
ever have entered. 

“Sit down, then, and I'll tell you. You are right, 
Dick ; there is something.” 

Dick sank back into his chair. Reaching out his hand, 
he helped himself to a fresh cigarette, which he lighted 
from the glowing end of the old. Michael waited for him 
to finish; and when he spoke, he had to go straight to 
the point in his own blunt fashion. 

“It is damned absurd, Dick, but the fact is, the police 
suspect you of having murdered old Jimmy. They were 
bound to fasten a motive on someone.” He added quickly, 
as Dick sprang to his feet: “ And you happen to offer the 
only target for the present. You see, you were the last 
to be seen with him. And then—well, they have ferreted 
out your trouble with that money-lender in town.” 

“Yes—and . . .?” Dick’s drawl was calm ; but an odd 
sort of look had come into his face, as if the colour had all 


MERELY MICHAEL 


79 


been pinched out of it by the force of some suppressed 
feeling underneath. 

“The fact is, M’Kerrel has come down with a warrant 
for your arrest. It is damnable, old fellow ; and it won’t 
be long before we show them that,’’ he explained with 
more assurance than he himself was feeling at the 
moment. 

Dick stood perfectly motionless, his eyes narrowing down 
to a fixed point. “I see,’’he said. “And when is this 
—er—interesting event to take place ? . . . I mean to 
say, when is your—friend—coming to arrest me ? ’’ 

He spoke with more than his usual drawl, and with an 
air of exaggerated indifference as he leaned against the 
mantelpiece, every trace of his former emotion driven from 
his face. There was an odd something in his manner, 
too, of which Michael recognised the symptoms, but to 
which he was still unable to assign a cause. 

“To-night, Dick . . . after dinner.’’ 

Dick flicked a speck of ash from his sleeve, carefully, as 
though its removal were the sole thing to afford him any 
interest at the moment. 

“ I see,” he said, with the same deadly calm as before. 

“ It is a point of motive they are basing it on. That is 
all. The idiocy of it will dawn on them soon.” 

Dick gave a short laugh. “Yes, there is a motive right 
enough. I am beginning to see that now,” he observed, 
regarding the other watchfully. “You are the only 
person who knew about my raising money on the reversion 
—until I told the old man himself that night.” 

“Dick ! What do you mean by that ? ” 

“Oh, nothing,” raising a hand to his lips to smother a 
yawn. “But,” he added, and the flicker of lightning 
Michael knew so well suddenly shot into his eyes, “you 
can infer what you damn well please—you and your 
friend of Scotland Yard.” 


80 


MERELY MICHAEL 


" You—you think, I told M’Kerrel ? " Michael queried 
in his slow way, stammering a little as he spoke. 

"Who else ? ... He is your friend, isn’t he ? " 

Michael remained as imperturbable as ever. He was 
making allowances for Dick; and then he is the sort of 
man who is never seen to such advantage as when he is 
up against it. 

"You are mad to talk like that, Dick," was all he said. 

"Yet not so mad, Frayne. . . . Not so mad." Dick 
repeated it. 

Then, with his heart full of a pent-up rage, the fiery 
temper of the man broke loose. 

"Motive ! " he sneered. "Yes, there is motive enough 
in your wanting to put me out of the way. By God ! I 
see it all now," he shouted, bringing down his fist with 
a crash on the mantelpiece. 

Just for an instant, Frayne felt like letting the other 
go to the devil in his own way—a feeling that was as 
instantly smothered back in a wave of pity. He knew 
his friend so well, whose strength was that of the impetuous 
rather than the ‘strength of the strong.’ He had seen 
the same unreasoning anger more than once before—this 
summer lightning of the man which was followed by the 
swift remorse of a generous soul for the extremities into 
which his temper had led him. He thought of all Dick 
had been through. He knew how bitterly Dick would 
regret, as soon as a calm reflection had returned to him. 

^Vithout another word, Michael left the room. 

And he had not been wrong in his surmise, for just 
before dinner Dick sought him out. 

"You were right," he admitted in that boyish way of 
his, ‘ ‘ I was mad. And you were a brick, Michael, to let 
it pass. For I know you will," and he caught his friend’s 
hand and wrung it. "I lashed out at you in that beastly 


MERELY MICHAEL 


81 


way of mine. ... In my own heart I knew I was being 
a beast, and—and I think that made me lash all the 
harder. And then you looked so damned patient and 
unmoved about it all. . . . But it was unpardonable on 
my part. I don’t know what takes me at such times. ...” 

Michael broke in, and his voice was gruff: “That’s 
all right. I do understand, old fellow. Don’t let’s say any 
more about it.” 

And so the incident was closed. Poor old Dick ! he was 
his own worst enemy, and all the world’s friend. 

It was a sad dinner to which the two friends sat down 
that night—Bailey had returned to town the day before. 
The memory of it, so Michael told me afterwards, 
will never quite pass from his mind; and I can well 
believe it. He would not speak of it, though every detail 
must have stamped an impress deep into his mind. 

When it was come to an end, and they sat over their 
last glass of port together, Dick—turning to his friend for 
advice as he had done on more than one crisis of his life 
before—said : 

‘ * What do you think, Mickey ? Should I write and 
tell her now, or should I wait ? ” 

“You mean ...” 

“To tell Esmee now that I love her or to ask her to 
wait ? That is what I am asking. ... I can’t make up 
my own mind about it.” 

Michael sat silent, but only for a moment. “Yes, 
tell her now. Write at once and tell her.” And he 
turned to the fire, and the pictures living there.” 

Later he accompanied Dick to his room to help him 
arrange his things. He noticed the automatic pistol in 
its case, carelessly open on the table. 

“What about this ? ” he asked. 

“Leave it where it is. I have nothing to conceal.” 

F 


82 


MERELY MICHAEL 


That was just what Michael wanted him to do, so he 
said nothing, fearing lest Dick’s opposition should be 
aroused—for he had come up against Dick’s obstinacy in 
the past. What possessed Dick to change his mind after 
Michael had left him can only be accounted for by the 
impulsive working of the man’s nature. But conceal the 
pistol he did; and when it came to light later, as it was 
bound to do, his friend groaned at the unspeakable folly 
of it. 

There was one other warning Frayne gave before they 
parted. “ Never admit you made a confession to Jimmy 
that night,” he said. 

And Dick promised. 


CHAPTER XI 


The night they took Dick off and lodged him in the county 
gaol was as miserable a one as ever Michael had spent in 
his life. The two had been friends—and more than 
brothers—from the earliest days. And now Michael was 
quite alone in the old house of Marley, and the gloom 
which settled down was more intense than ever ; the spirit 
of evil seemed to creep out of the old wing, and to spread 
itself from room to room until it invaded even the cheerful 
glow of Michael’s bedroom. And yet he was a man 
accounted unimpressionable among his friends. 

Thoroughly tired out though he was, his mind could 
find no rest from the questions which assailed it; and 
when at last he slept, dreams crowded in upon him. He 
would be aware of that old haunted hall, his body chained 
to it, as it were, while that which was ‘he ’ looked on. 
Stealthy footfalls on the stone staircase mounted slowly 
up, then before they reached the top he would awaken 
in his struggles to be free. Or again, he would find himself 
approaching that fateful alcove, drawn there by some 
nameless horror which lurked behind the portiere. And 
he would wake up as he crossed the threshold, from the 
very intensity of his efforts to escape. Again and again 
the same thing happened, dozing off and waking up from 
the horror of it. He had never known such continuity in 
a dream before ; he could not explain it away to his own 
satisfaction, but there was some powerful loadstone drawing 
him across the borderland of dreams. 


84 


MERELY MICHAEL 


He was glad when morning came, and he was able to 
catch an early train to town, where, on his arrival, he 
hailed a taxi and drove at once to the address which 
M’Kerrel had given him. Fortunately he found Kelly at 
home. 

At first sight Michael did not quite know what to make 
of Kelly. He was a spare, dapper little man in a tweed 
suit of a peculiarly loud check, with the look of a retired 
jockey in every hard-bitten, fine-drawn line of him. He 
had the humour of an Irishman, with a Yankee flavouring 
to it and a Transatlantic twang. Very round, very 
red, and very clean-shaven, his face shone like a well- 
polished apple. 

"Been looking for you,” he said, clipping his sentences 
and getting a good pace on his speech. "How-de-do, Mr. 
Frayne ? Sit down, please. Yes, it was M’Kerrel who 
’phoned to me about you.” 

And so he greeted Michael, motioning him to a seat and 
answering his unspoken questions simultaneously. Then 
he mounted himself on a chair, straddling across it and 
gripping the back of it, and looking at Michael with the 
same bright eagerness as though it were the starting gate 
he contemplated on Derby day. 

"Well ? ” he demanded, his round bright eyes twinkling 
intelligently. 

So Michael settled himself down in his slow, forceful 
way to tell the story from beginning to end, explaining 
his suspicions as regards the di Conti connection, em¬ 
phasising also the interest they had in ridding themselves 
of Dick by the means that now lay in their power. There 
were two things only he kept from Kelly: his discovery 
of that half-smoked cigarette and the matter of Dick’s 
confession on the night of the murder. 

"Di Conti,” Kelly repeated thoughtfully to himself. 
He was biting on a black, oily cheroot of the Burmese 


MERELY MICHAEL 


85 


persuasion which protruded from one corner of his mouth. 

Sounds aristocratic. . . . Tell me what you know of 
the family.” 

'‘Nothing, I’m afraid. Marley never mentioned any¬ 
thing about that—I doubt if he knew himself. They 
met in Australia, and no questions asked.” 

“And you don’t know what part of Italy he hailed 
from ? ” 

But regarding that, too, Michael could say nothing 
definite. All he knew was that Marley received threatening 
letters, one of which he had happened to see some years 
ago. He recollected the postmark was Naples, for he 
was a stamp collector in those early days. 

‘‘And you found nothing among his papers? ” Kelly 
queried. 

Michael shook his head. 

“Ch't! ” exclaimed Kelly, a sound like escaping steam 
issuing from between his teeth. 

‘‘Di Conti . . . threatening letters . . . Naples post¬ 
mark—not a great deal to start on, as the elephant said 
when he slipped on a banana skin over the precipice. 
And this village carpenter—Mongini, you said his name 
was ? Born and bred in Italy ? ” 

‘‘No, in England, I believe. At least his mother is 
English.” 

‘‘So there is only his father’s nationality to connect 
him with the di Conti ? Does not sound as if there was 
any blood relationship between a di Conti and the village 
blacksmith. Eh ? ” 

Michael admitted the truth of this, but suggested that 
they might have turned him to their own uses. At least, 
it was something to make a start on, and it was their only 
clue at present. 

‘‘Yep, some clue. I only hope it does not lead us into 
the intricacies of some Mafia or Black-Hand group,” Kelly 


86 


MERELY MICHAEL 


observed, working the cheroot right from one comer of 
his mouth to the other. “I have had dealings with the 
gentle Italiano in Noo-York. I am not unaware of their 
ramifications. But I’ll get right down to it for a start. 
Anything else ? ” 

“Nothing.” 

“Well, let me see. This is Toosday. On Thursday I’ll 
be coming to Marley House to have a look around for 
myself. You be there ? ” 

Michael said he would be at the station and have a room 
ready in case Kelly should wish to stay overnight. And 
with that they parted. 

It was a crisp November day. As Michael made his 
way through the Green Park the sun shining unobscured 
tempered the wind. He sat down on an empty seat, his 
eyes intent on the roadway, whereon he was describing 
intricate figures with the point of his walking-stick, while 
his brain was actively engaged with a problem of life and 
death. And the more he contemplated the clue on which 
his mind was set, the more remote did the chance of linking 
up appear. Kelly, in spite of all his cheerfulness, had 
somehow opened his eyes more fully to the gravity of the 
task with which they were faced. 

At length he roused himself out of his reverie. This 
was not the spirit that wins, he told himself. And then 
his thoughts turned to Esmee Favoril. It was her happi¬ 
ness, too, that was at stake, as well as Dick’s, and Michael 
registered a vow with himself that win he would. 

With this he rose to his feet and resumed his way to the 
club, where it was his intention to lunch before catching 
the train back to Marley Pryors. As he mounted the 
steps he almost ran into Bailey, who was coming out. 

“Hullo, Frayne ! ” Bailey greeted him with that quiet, 
pleasant smile of his. 


MERELY MICHAEL 


87 


“I have just time for lunch before catching a train. 
Do you feel like it ? ” 

Bailey did. 

“Come along, then/' said Michael in his hearty way. 

Bailey had little to occupy his time. He had few 
friends left in town, owing to his long absences from 
England. He had been Dick’s friend more than Michael’s 
at school, where all three had been in the same house, 
and though he and Michael had never had much in common, 
the two were always glad enough to meet. 

It was early yet, and a table at the window was vacant. 
Their talk, as was natural, turned on Dick’s arrest. A man 
with a noon edition took up his stand at the corner of the 
street, and looking from the club windows it was possible 
to read the posters : 

“Murder—or Suicide. Sensational Developments. 

Arrest of well-known Man about Town.” 

“It is awful,’’ Bailey muttered. “I cannot believe it.’’ 

“Of course not. But that is not the point. The police 
have discovered what they think to be a strong motive, 
and there are some unfortunate circumstances to strengthen 
them in their opinion. Dick is certain to be committed 
on the charge of murdering old Jimmy, and we have to 
do all we can to help him out. You and I in particular, 
Bailey, who are his friends and who believe in him.’’ 

“That is of course. . . . But it was suicide. There 
cannot be any doubt about that.’’ 

“There is no motive for suicide. And there are certain 
facts which negative the idea, as you know.’’ 

Bailey reflected for a moment, looking out of the window. 
“I don’t remember much of what passed then,’’ he said. 
Then, with a shudder: “Ugh! That room, it keeps 
haunting me still. I felt it the first moment I entered. 
Depend upon it, Frayne, there is something about the 


88 


MERELY MICHAEL 


room to account for it—something which drove him to 
his death in that curious way. It is a problem which 
requires psychological treatment. ... I have made rather 
a study of that sort of thing—that is where I could help. 
One of these days I shall return to Marley, and then—I 
shall really know what it means.*' But, though he smiled, 
the idea seemed to fill him with a shuddering horror. 

A frown gathered on Michael's face as he pointed out 
that such a theory would be of little use to Dick when he 
stood in the dock to answer the charge of murder ; adding 
that Bailey might feel the ‘influence,’ as he called it, but 
that old Jimmy never had, who spent night after night 
in the old hall without anything happening in the past. 

“He may not have felt it, just as you would not feel it 
yourself in your own lack of imaginative vision. But I 
tell you it is there all the same, lying in wait. . . . And it 
got him in the end. It is of no use talking of such things 
to you, Frayne, and never could be. All the same, you 
may have need of my help in that respect yet.’’ 

Bailey spoke with some heat. It seemed to work on 
his nerves that Michael should not be able to feel what 
others felt—himself in particular—and the calm scepticism 
irritated him. 

Michael, in his good-humoured sort of way, admitted 
that such an aspect of the case was beyond him, being too 
material himself to regard any possibility beyond the 
strictly physical. “I grant you,” he said, “that I should 
not choose the old hall as being the most desirable room 
in the house to sit in of a night alone, and this tragedy of 
poor old Jimmy has made it more repugnant still. But I 
am unable to go further than that, I must confess." He 
glanced at his watch and rose. He had to be getting along, 
he observed, if he was to catch his train to Marley Pryors. 

“What is taking you back there ? Is it the vicarage 
that is beginning to attract ? " 


MERELY MICHAEL 


39 


‘‘No,” was the very curt reply. “I am staying on at 
Marley House. There are things to be settled up yet.” 

“Alone? ” 

“Yes. Except, of course, for Peters and the servants. 
Why ? ” 

“Well, it is more than I could do, that's all.” And 
Bailey shivered slightly. 

He offered to go as far as the station, and the two 
descended the club steps, chatting pleasantly of other 
things. 

As they passed down a side street a poor old couple 
begged for alms. Frayne took no notice ; not so Bailey, 
who laid a coin diffidently into the woman's hand. “Be¬ 
cause,” he explained almost apologetically, “she is a 
woman. And because the poor old fellow is past fighting 
for himself. . . . They both looked so damned cold. 
Besides,” he added, a look of shrinking on his sensitive 
face, “I hate to see them suffer,” and then he laughed. 
“Mere selfishness, you see, and cynical at that.” 

It was dark when Michael arrived at Marley. The 
solemn Peters was at the door to meet him, his face more 
like a graven image than ever, though Michael fancied the 
man was pleased to see him back again. Peters was 
possibly relieved of the prospect of having to spend a 
night alone in the house, if Peters could be imagined to 
have a feeling about anything in the wide world. But 
there was no disguising the fact that the manner of the 
man had grown more furtive since the tragedy occurred, a 
fact that was becoming more noticeable each day. 

Michael found a note awaiting him. It was from Miss 
Favoril, asking him to call at the vicarage that afternoon, 
or any other which might prove to be convenient to him. 

“Now what should I do about that? ” he pondered, 
frowning to himself, 


CHAPTER XII 

Miss Favoril was seated alone in the cosy little vicarage 
study. The vicar was out, she announced; and would 
Mr. Frayne have some tea ? It was so much cosier than 
in the drawing-room—she hoped he didn’t mind. The 
demureness of her was disarming. Later, when he came 
to know her better, I fancy he regarded that particular 
smile with some misgiving. 

“Thanks,” said Michael, “I should like tea very much.” 

Tea is an occasion which I have never known Michael 
to regard with much enthusiasm. But possibly he liked 
watching Miss Favoril preside over the tea-table ; and it 
was a pleasant change from what he was accustomed to 
himself. He was not a domestic sort of fellow, he felt, 
and never could be. Still, it would be nice, when she and 
Dick were married, to sit by their fireside of an afternoon 
and chat cosily like this. 

“Cream and sugar? ” she queried. And he answered, 
“Yes, please,” without a moment’s hesitation. 

Now he never really liked tea—'Waste of a good thirst ’ 
he called it—and with sugar it became an abomination ; 
still, he was committed to it with a smile, and forgot his 
prejudice in the home-like intimacy of the occasion. 

For she was putting him very much at his ease to-day, 
she was not laughing at him secretly from the depths of 
her eyes. He felt she was a woman you could talk to, 
after all. 

They touched upon various topics of conversation, and 

90 


MERELY MICHAEL 


91 


the courage and reserve of her was not lost on Michael, for 
it was not until tea was over that she broached the subject 
on account of which she had sent for him. 

“Mr. Frayne,’’ she exclaimed, “isn’t it outrageous 
arresting Dick ! I have known him for four years now. . . . 
Oh, the abominable injustice of it! ’’ 

She gave a little stamp of her foot, and despite the 
gravity of the occasion, it was all that Michael could do to 
withold a smile. 

And small wonder. She is as bewildering a 
person as I have ever met: imperious as youth, wilful 
as a spoilt child who has not yet learned of the world, 
and therefore demanding much of life. Yet I have known 
all that to vanish in an instant in the winning tenderness 
of her eyes ; coaxing, pleading, and still compelling you. 
Possessed, in short, of all that wilfulness and charm which 
so often unite to make a woman what she is. “What 
strange things women are,’’ Michael confided tome about 
this time. “A man could only cope with them who 
himself had imagination and temperament.’’ Poor 
Michael! Small wonder, I say, that he could not under¬ 
stand. “They are,” I assured him. “The very devil.’’ 
But Michael merely frowned at this. 

“ I know Dick never did it,’’ she cried, a look of hurt in 
her eyes. “I know he is frightfully impulsive and quick¬ 
tempered, but I just know he could not do it.’’ 

“So do I,” said Michael in his slow, deliberate way. 

‘ * I know, too, that there is not a more gallant and generous, 
or a more tender-hearted fellow in the world.’’ 

The look she gave him was his reward. And from that 
moment dated their friendship, though there was no 
immediate sign of it to follow. 

“I saw the detective myself when he was here. . . . 
Oh, what a horrid man ! ’’ 

“No,” Michael disagreed gravely, averting his eyes—for 


92 


MERELY MICHAEL 


it was difficult to dissent from anything when she looked 
at you like that. “I know M’Kerrel well. He is one of 
the best, and he is not a detective, as you call him. He is 
at the top. ... You see, Miss Favoril, he was only doing 
his duty after all.” 

Instantly the girl’s face clouded over. ' So that is the 
sort of friends you keep,’ her expression seemed to indicate. 
What she actually did say was : 

“Well, Mr. Frayne, can't you do something to get your 
friend out of prison ? Dick is your friend, isn’t he ? ” 

“Yes.” Michael began to feel like a convicted criminal, 
and without knowing why, for he was doing all he could ; 
nothing to reproach himself with there. Had you told 
him of the perfect genius which the best of women possess 
for putting a man in the wrong, probably he would not 
have believed you. But now he could only hang his head, 
without quite knowing why. 

“Well? ” she demanded. 

To gain time, he looked away and commenced stirring 
his tea. He thought for a bit, then said : “Miss Favoril, 
we are both of us friends of Dick’s—his best friends, you 
and I.” 

“Yes ”—impatiently. 

“So I think I had better tell you all about it.” 

“Yes, tell me. . . . Tell me; that’s what I do want 
you to do. . . . Dad may be back at any moment, and 
that will only waste more time.” 

I have often thought and smiled at the many ways which 
a woman has of drawing information. Michael did not 
see it, nor will he ever. But could he, being merely 
Michael ? 

“Tell me ”—she laid her hand on his sleeve and let it 
stay there for a moment—“just everything.” 

And he did. 

Wheu he had come to 2in end of the telling, her eyes 


MERELY MICHAEL 


93 


were round and shining. “There was an Italian-looking 
man here last week, staying with Mongini,” she exclaimed. 
“ I saw him one afternoon as I walked through the village, 
and I believe I've seen him before, too. We must watch 
them closely. . . . We are friends now, aren’t we, Mr. 
Frayne ? I have so often heard Dick speak of you, you 
know. And I have never had a brother,” she added with 
a look that was wistful. 

“That is all right. I am merely Michael,” he assured 
her, with one of those rare smiles that light up his strong 
face. 

“What I really mean is that we are both friends of 
Dick, so we must be friends of one another.” 

The light in her eyes as she championed Dicks cause 
roused him to admire, and then to wonder. He had never 
known a woman such as this before. 

“And we will follow it up together, and get Dick out of 
prison. Is it a bargain ? ” She put out her hand. And 
wondering a little what he should do with it, Michae 
hesitated. She gave a delicious little laugh at that. 
“Don’t look so startled,”she said. 

He held her hand for an instant, dropping it abruptly. 
“Only, you know, this may prove to be more than a 
man’s job,” he said. 

“How absurd and old-fashioned! Women are doing 
men’s jobs nowadays, I believe,” she announced, wrinkling 
up her little face. “You are one of these impossible men 
who still regard a woman as a bit of Dresden china. . . . 
Well, you will have to get over that.” She was quite eight 
years his junior, but she spoke as though he were a little 
child. Then she went on decisively: “Now we shall 
meet quite often and tell each other how we are getting 

on with the clue. Oh-” she said, breaking off sharply 

as a sudden thought struck her. 

“What is it? ” 



94 


MERELY MICHAEL 


“Don’t you see it ? ” 

“No.” 

“ They think they have settled with Dick, and now 
they are plotting against you. They have learned all 
about the will. Mongini opened Mr. Marley’s box with a 
skeleton key and read it.” 

“It was a safe, not a box.” 

“ It’s all the same—of course he opened it. I don’t care 
what you say.” Michael had not said a word. There 
had not been a chance, as indeed there seldom is with 
Esmee. And Michael is a silent man. *' I don’t care what 
you say,” she repeated, tapping with a finger on her knee. 
“I know I am right. . . . What are you going to do 
about it ? ” 

Michael sat and silently deliberated the question. Her 
flight of thought was beyond him. He could not keep 
pace with it; it bewildered him. 

“ How do you mean—what will I do ? ” he asked. 

“Of course you will get out a warrant for their arrest.” 

He frowned. “But what on earth for ? ” 

“You must. At once—before they murder you.” She 
jumped up. “Wait, I’ll get my hat on and come with 
you to the police-station.” 

“But they don’t serve out warrants like—like bread 
tickets, you know.” 

He stood gazing down at the small figure from his own 
great bulk, faintly smiling at her in a perplexed, reluctant 
way. 

“Don’t be so stupid,” she chided. “I will tell them 
to do it. Stubbs the constable will do anything for me.” 
A statement which Michael veritably believed to be 
true, though it did not seem worth while to point out 
that village constables do not deal in warrants. 

“It is quite simple. Please,” she coaxed. “Oh, 
pie-ease ! ” 


MERELY MICHAEL 


95 


There is something of the immovable about Michael. 
But I really cannot say if he would have yielded the next 
second—or the second after that again—had the old vicar 
not entered in the nick of time. 


CHAPTER XIII 


Michael was reading the morning paper by the fireside, 
and smoking an after-breakfast pipe, when he suddenly 
became conscious of Peters, who had slipped up in his 
silent way to stand effacing himself until MichaeTs attention 
should be freed. 

“Well, Peters, what is it ? ” 

“You know, sir, that I have served the late master for 
nigh on fifteen years, at home and abroad. He was a good 
master to me—none could have wished for a better.” 

What a dreary fellow, thought Michael, glancing at the 
pale, expressionless face and the black-coated figure as 
motionless as a wax effigy. In spite of his natural pallor, 
he had a curiously swarthy appearance. 

“Yes, Peters, quite so. Now tell me plainly what you 
want. Your late master left you uncommonly well pro¬ 
vided for. Are you thinking of retiring into private life ? 
Is that it ? ” 

“Oh, sir,” Peters objected without change of tone, and 
still without moving a muscle, “I would not leave the 
family to whom I have become so attached. I have served 
the late master faithfully to the end, and I would not 
have wished to leave the house in this its hour of calamity.” 

Michael watched his face as he spoke, wondering, as he 
had often done before, at all that lay behind that death¬ 
like mask. Then the large clock in the hall struck ten, 
and he realised he had only a few moments to spare before 

leaving for the station to meet Kelly. 

66 


MERELY MICHAEL 


97 


"Now, Peters, I have only a little time to spare at 
present. Speak out, man, and tell me what is on your 
mind." 

Peters shifted his weight from one foot to the other ] 
then fixed his furtive gaze more intently on Michael, and 
said: 

" Mr. Frayne, sir, I am afraid." 

"Afraid! ” said Michael, astonished that any emotion 
whatsoever should register itself on the man’s brain. 
" What are you afraid of ? ’’ 

"I have been afraid since yesterday,” was the soft 
reply. " And I cannot go on, sir.” 

Michael was almost angry. He pulled out his watch 
and consulted the time. "All right, Peters, only three 
minutes left. Get on with it.” 

"Well, sir, you must know there is something queer 
about the place.” 

"You mean the old hall in which Mr. Marley met with 
his death ? ” 

"Yes, sir. I can’t rightly explain it, but many a time 
in the past has it given me a turn when I have been tidying 
up there. It sort of draws you, and it gives you the 
creeps when you get there.” Peter paused and drew his 
hand over his face. "A servant has his feelings, sir, 
though he keeps them to himself. The master, you know, 
wouldn’t have any of the other servants straightening up 
there but me.” 

"But you have been aware of this all along. Why 
should it worry you so much now ? ” 

Michael’s interest was aroused. Profoundly distrustful 
of Peters as he had always been, he was bent on probing 
further. 

"Mr. Frayne, sir”—and Peters’voice sank to a 
whisper—"you know they are all afraid of the old 
wing—not one of the other servants would dare set foot 

G 


98 


MERELY MICHAEL 


on it—not now, sir. . . . But last evening something 
happened. . . . And I don’t like it, I don’t indeed, sir.” 

Michael was conscious of a sudden quickening of interest. 
“ What happened ? ” he asked. 

“Well, it was this way, sir. After you had finished 
dinner I found I had mislaid some keys. I searched high 
and low for them ; but all the time I knew it was in the 
old wing I must have left them, when I went there in the 
morning to tidy up. I was hoping against hope— but all 
the time I just knew. ... You see, sir, I needed the keys 
badly to lock up the silver for the night.” He paused. 

“ So you went along to fetch them ? ” 

“Yes, sir, I did just that. I found them alright, and 
had turned for the door when a sound fell upon my ears. 
But it was hardly a sound, sir, so thin and cold it was. 
It came from the direction of the conservatory entrance. 
A sort of pattering noise, only it was muffled like.” 

“Rats in the wainscoting, Peters.” 

“No, sir, it wasn’t rats, begging your pardon. I know 
the sound of them well enough. ... It started from the 
stone stairs, and then it sounded behind the portiere. It 
was—well, I’ve a difficulty in explaining it, sir. And I 
don’t like it.” 

Michael did not smile ; he was frowning grimly. “But 
you must have your own ideas about it. What do you 
make of it yourself, Peters ? ” 

“Just this, sir—that the sound was not the sound of 
rats, nor yet of anything that’s living,” and his voice sank 
to a sepulchral whisper as he added : “It was a sound of 
the dead, sir . . . like something coming up from the 
vaults below.” 

The man’s expression did not alter, but a sort of tremor 
passed over him. Michael too maintained a perfectly 
grave face. 

“And then what did you do ? ” 


MERELY MICHAEL 


99 


Peters’ eyes never left the ground. "I hurried off, sir, 
banging the door shut behind me. And I listened outside 
for a moment. There was a curious dull thud in the 
distance. Then silence.” 

“It is all nonsense, of course. But why did you not 
come at once and tell me? ” 

“No, sir.” 

“Why, I asked.” 

“ I was afraid, sir.” 

“Of me?” 

“No, sir; of—of what we might find there if you 
came.” 

Michael snorted. “What rubbish!” he exclaimed. 
“I am surprised at you, Peters. I thought that you at 
least would have been above that sort of thing.” 

All the time he had the feeling that there must be 
some motive at the back of this. He could not credit 
Peters with such folly, and he was determined to investigate 
further; though what could come of it he did not stop 
to imagine. 

Peters was very humble about it. “Yes, sir,” he 
agreed, “it certainly does seem like that. In the light of 
day, sir. But when night draws on—well, I don’t like 
it, as I said before, sir.” 

The clock chimed the quarter, and Michael had to go. 
He might be late as it was and he was not the man to 
keep people waiting. He must be off now, but he would 
resume the matter on his return. 

Peters had followed him to the door. As he opened it 
for Frayne to pass out he said, with his eyes on the ground: 
“ I could never wish to leave the family, sir. But I don’t 
like it, and I must give you notice to-day, sir. I should 
be grateful if you could see your way to let me go the 
next time you are to be absent yourself from the house. 

. . . Better shut it up, sir,” he said, in a low voice that 


100 


MERELY MICHAEL 


vibrated curiously. "It is the house of the dead. It is 
not for the living, if you’ll pardon me saying so much, 

_• a 

sir. 

Michael brushed past him without another word, jumped 
into his car and was off at top speed down the avenue. 
He arrived as the train, which was a few minutes late, was 
emptying itself of its passengers. 

Kelly arrived looking very dapper, very alert, and with 
a smile on his red face. “Here I am,” he said, holding 
out a hand, while in the other he gripped a small handbag 
tightly. 

Arrived at Marley, Michael asked Kelly if he would 
have anything to eat or drink. But Kelly's reply was 
that he had eaten all he ever ate until lunch-time, and 
that he never drank until the sun went down. 

“We can get down to our job right now,” he added. 
“Anything fresh ? ” 

Michael shook his head. 

That also was Kelly’s report up to date. *‘ A nil return, ’ ’ 
he called it. Then he proceeded to detail his line of 
action. Their first requirement was to find the di Conti 
descendants, and after that to have them shadowed. He 
had set inquiries afoot in Naples, also he had inserted 
advertisements in the English and Italian papers. 

“Sweet are the uses of advertisement, in the words of 
the bard. ... Of course nothing may come of it. The 
birds may smell a rat and shy off,” he said, with an Irish 
mixing of his metaphors. “But on the other hand, 

there may be dissensions among them—being relatives_ 

and one party may give the other away. I am a great be¬ 
liever in the Press, Mr. Frayne—the Press and psychology. 
We are sure to find a use for both of them before we are 
out of the wood. Now let us have a look at the haunted 
room. It is haunted, is it not ? ” And he chuckled drily 


MERELY MICHAEL 


101 


to himself. Without waiting for a reply, he continued: 
“The Press is already beginning to write it up: ‘The 
Marley Mystery,’ and the ‘Haunted Hall.’ That is the 
sort of stuff we want to give them.’’ 

It was as well to be ready for all emergencies, Kelly 
explained. A jury was composed of men like themselves ; 
many of them had wives. And in a weak defence the 
psychology of the British public was not a thing to be 
despised ; nor was that of its wife. He maintained that 
a jury these days was not slow to utilise any loopholes 
in favour of a man standing the life-trial. 

“Give them as many loopholes as possible, that’s my 
motto. But we are not downhearted, for all that,’’ he 
added in his cheery tones as his sharp eyes noted a trace of 
disappointment in Frayne’s face : “ Come along, let us have 
a look at the room.’’ 

It was broad daylight as they entered. The sun poured 
in through the deep, narrow windows, but its rays must 
have been strongly transmuted in the process, for they 
only served to emphasise the sinister nature of the sur¬ 
roundings. 

Kelly looked keenly about him. “ Queer old spot this,’’ 
he remarked, blowing out his cheeks until they grew 
more roundly polished than ever. 

Then he asked Frayne to reconstruct for him the relative 
position of things as nearly as possible, and Frayne led 
him to the alcove. There the ashes lay dead in the grate. 
The chair still stood exactly where it had been ; only it 
was empty now of its last ghastly burden. An involuntary 
shudder took possession of Michael—the shadow of a 
dream, perhaps ; a moment, and it was gone. There was 
work to be done. 

The chalk lines still remained on the floor where M’Kerrel 
had marked out the position of the pistol, and these 
Michael pointed out to Kelly. 


102 


MERELY MICHAEL 


"There was no chance of its having been suicide? 
the latter asked suddenly. " No motive for such a thing ? " 

"Marley was not that sort/’ Michael answered curtly. 
"It was murder—only they have arrested a man who 
was incapable of the crime." 

Kelly did not pursue the subject. "That being so, it 
remains for us to discover who did it," he said. He was 
all keenness now, and he got down to business. "Will 
you please be seated? " he said briskly. "Just place 
yourself in the position of the deceased as far as you 
remember it." 

The air of detachment with which he made the request 
robbed it of all the grimness with which Dr. Capper would 
have invested it. He spoke in the manner of a photo¬ 
grapher about to perpetuate a likeness with his camera, 
that was all. The humour of it struck Michael at first, 
but his face grew grimmer as he sat down in position while 
Kelly’s small bright eyes kept twinkling from him to the 
floor, or to the portiere, and then back again. Kelly 
asked where the bullet had entered, and in answer Michael 
pointed to the place on his skull. 

"Ch’t!" exclaimed the little man. "Looks as if 
there was no doubt about it. The murderer must have crept 
round the corner of the buttress. . . , Thank you, Mr. 
Frayne." 

And Michael rose. "That is the conclusion to which 
both M’Kerrel and Capper arrived," he said. 

"Whom did you say? Little Capper, the hanging 
doctor ? " 

Michael knew nothing about the doctor except what he 
had seen of the man when he came round to examine the 
body. But that, he recollected, was the name which 
M'Kerrel had called him—the 'hanging doctor.’ 

"Must be the same. I heard he had left his practice 
in London, but I little thought he would have landed in a 


MERELY MICHAEL 


103 


place like this, I will look him up presently and see 
what he has to say. I can sometimes get him to show 
his hand—that’s what comes of being a psychologist, y’see, 
Mr. Frayne. If he is out to hang our man—as he is sure 
to be—there is one thing to be done.” 

Kelly stopped and chuckled to himself, but again there 
was nothing offensive or callous in his manner. Michael 
asked what he meant. 

“Why, to engage Barker, K.C., for the defence. And 
to engage him at once. That’s where psychology comes 
in, y’know,” he repeated. Then he went on to dilate upon 
its two main arteries, as he understood them. “Either,” 
he said, “you tickle a man’s vanity as you would a trout, 
until he feeds out of your hand and tells you what you’re 
after, or else you ruffle his hackles until he comes out with 
all you don’t want and leaves you to infer what you do. 
Now,” he explained, “that's where Barker comes in. He 
has got the measure of his man to a nicety—‘got his 
goat,' as they say in the States—and he is the one man 
calculated to upset the doctor’s equanimity. They are 
old antagonists ; I’ve seen 'em at it before. Just you get 
Barker on the ’phone this morning, Mr. Frayne, and don’t 
forget to tell him who it is he is up against. He’ll like 
it.” Kelley’s eyes twinkled at the thought, and he broke 
into his dry cackle of a laugh. 

There was no answering smile on Michael’s face, but a 
frown. It was the murderer of old Jimmy he was after, 
not merely a skilful counsel for the defence. 

“ We want more than that,” he said, a set look about 
his mouth. 

“Sure,” returned Kelly, “and we’ll be getting it too, 
please the pigs.” 

Though he kept his counsel to himself, there was, he 
knew, a lot of evidence piling up against young Marley ; 
and he was not the man to despise the unconsidered 


104 


MERELY MICHAEL 

trifle in a case like this. There was a missing link in their 
only clue, and it was a big one; and then there was the 
time factor to be considered. 

He was now examining the conservatory closely. Once 
or twice he muttered to himself; it was plain there was 
nothing to be found there. He had arrived at much the 
same conclusion as M’Kerrel, and he saw that the prosecu¬ 
tion would try to show that young Marley had made his 
way out of the house and then round by the conservatory, 
or else that he had let himself down from the window 
to the roof of the balcony connecting the front of the 
house with the old wing. And pursuing his inquiries, he 
opened the door of the conservatory to pass into the 
shrubbery beyond, from which he could examine the 
outside. 

By now the lock had been replaced, but to Michael’s 
astonishment the door opened silently with the turning 
of the handle only. 

‘‘That’s strange,’’ said he ; “ the door should have been 
locked. A new handle and key have just been fitted to 
it by that fellow Mongini of whom I told you when we 
first met. The key was left with Peters—at least, it 
should have been.” 

“Who is Peters ? ” Kelly asked sharply. 

“The man who showed you to your room.” 

“What—that animated mummy ? ” 

“Yes,” and Michael gave a laugh. “But not so much 
of the animated about him. He is the most motionless 
person, I have ever known.” 

“ H’m, maybe. But to me he looks like the motionless 
man who has sat on the powder magazine too long. Been 
long in your service ? ’' 

“For fifteen years with his late master, whom, he will 
tell you, he has served faithfully all these years.” 

“English ? ” 


MERELY MICHAEL 


105 


But Michael was unable to answer this question. 

"Doesn’t look like it," said Kelly. He was pushing 
the door backwards and forwards as he spoke, and finding 
that it moved noiselessly on its hinges. 

"Thorough fellow that," he observed. "He has given 
the hinges a dousing of oil when he repaired the lock," 
and he pointed to a smear of oil on his fingers. 

At lunch Kelly proved himself to be an interesting 
companion, with many an experience the narration of 
which was accompanied by a running comment on the 
criminal mind. This was, as always, an interesting topic 
to Michael, not only as journalist but also as a student of 
criminology in an amateur way. 

Presently the door opened and Peters insinuated himself 
within. "Mr. Frayne, sir, may I have a word with 
you ? " he asked in his sleek way. 

"All right, Peters, but have it here. Mr. Kelly, in his 
capacity of private investigator, is entirely in our con¬ 
fidence, and the more he knows the better." 

"Well, sir," said Peters, coming closer to Michael and 
casting a look of some mistrust on Kelly, "the fact is the 
servants refuse to stay in the house a day longer. One 
and all, sir." 

Michael eyed him sternly. "Peters," he said, "you’ve 
been talking." 

"Oh, sir, I would never do that. I have told them 
nothing. They have heard things for themselves, sir, and 
they are afraid." And he was very earnest about it. 

"Afraid of what? " Kelly interrogated. 

And Peters, standing perfectly still, cast a sidelong 
glance at Michael as though looking to him to answer. 
So Michael told Kelly the cause of Peters’ trepidation, 
while Peters remained silent. Kelly nodded as if such a 
tale were an everyday occurrence with him, and not so 
much as a smile crossed his face. 


106 


MERELY MICHAEL 


“And when do they all propose to leave ? “ asked 
Michael. 

“At once, sir." 

“And you ? ’’ 

Peters shuffled from one foot to the other. “I would 
never leave while there is a breath left in my body to 
serve the family. But you know, Mr. Frayne, sir, I cannot 
stay on here alone. . . . Oh, sir, the house should be 
shut up, if I may make so bold again. It should be shut 
up, sir," he repeated with the only change of expression 
Michael had ever seen him display. 

It was curious how the fellow had a knack of getting 
on the wrong side of one who was not easily moved as a 
rule ; but the soft purring voice, the very sleekness of the 
man, had always vaguely irritated Michael. 

“That’s all very well, Peters,’’ he said brusquely; “it 
is a free country, and if you all wish to go I shall not 
try to keep you. But Mr. Kelly and myself are here for 
to-night. You will have to wait for another day.’’ 

Peters said : “Very good, sir,’’ and was moving to the 
door when Michael called him back to question him about 
the key. Had the carpenter left it with him ? And 
Peters answered: “Yes, sir,’’ without a moment’s 
hesitation. 

“Why was it not locked, then ? ” 

“Not locked, sir? The carpenter told me he had 
locked it—I particularly asked him, sir.’’ 

“And you did not try it yourself ? ’’ 

“Well—no, sir.” He had taken what the carpenter 
told him to be correct. The carpenter had been working 
on the estate for years past, and was a man to be trusted. 

“Curious bird, that,’’ Kelly observed as the door closed 
behind Peters. ‘* Seems to have a fit of the funks all right. ” 
He laughed to himself. “Make good copy that. . . . 

‘ 1 he Haunted Horror.' ’ With that he announced his 


MERELY MICHAEL 


10? 


intention of having a look round the village. “I’ll try to 
draw Dr. Capper, and maybe I’ll look in on your Signor 
Mongini. After that I’ll do a little bit of press work. . . . 
Well, I’ll be getting along. See you later.” 

Michael did not answer at once, but sat puffing at his 
pipe. “Kelly,” he exclaimed suddenly, “you don’t 
know me. But I can assure you I am a man without 
imagination or sentiment. You ask M’Kerrel.” 

Kelly had bright eyes like a squirrel’s; they fastened 
on the square, powerful face before him thoughtfully. 

“What's your proposition? ” he queried. 

“You’ll think me mad. But will you sit up in the 
haunted room to-night ?—unconscious that, for the first 
time, he had referred to it as such. 

Kelly dropped back into his chair. His face opened 
out into a wide grin. 

“You can give your psychology a little gentle exercise,” 
said Michael, with an answering smile. “There is no 
saying-” 

“Haw, haw ! ’’Kelly guffawed ; by psychology he meant 
the scientific study of the mind—not of ‘spooks.’ 

Michael knew that, but he was going to sit up all the 
same, he reiterated in his slow, determined way. Kelly 
could please himself about it. 

“I have got my reason,” he said. “It is not super¬ 
stition. It is Peters, and I can’t help thinking there is 
something at the back of all this. I believe the fellow 
has got the servants all on the twitter for some purpose of 
his own. I can’t think what it is, but there is little he 
seems to do without some cunning behind it.” 

Kelly was quite ready to see Michael through, if he 
was so bent on it; and he admitted the possibility of 
Peters being at the bottom of some ‘ hanky-panky ’ business 
of his own. But he still thought it was the waste of a 
good nights’ sleep. 



108 


MERELY MICHAEL 


“That’s all right,” he said in answer to Michael’s retort 
that he was not being asked to waste his. "But it is 
unofficial, mind. For if they were to learn in the Yard 
that Tom Kelly had been spook-hunting instead of minding 
his job they’d laugh me out of it altogether.” 


CHAPTER XIV 

The short winter afternoon was drawing to its close. 
The fitful light of the flames towards which Michael’s face 
was turned lit up the deep-set eyes, throwing into promin¬ 
ence the strength of his features and the indomitable set 
of his chin. 

He was seated close to the fire, for it had been a bleak 
sort of day with a biting wind out of the north. There 
was a book on his knee—a treatise on criminology; but 
his mind kept wandering to Dick and the solution of the 
mystery which had engulfed his friend. From Dick his 
thoughts passed on, in a natural sequence, to Miss Favoril. 
How variable were her moods, he thought—from grave 
to gay and back again. He knew how profoundly she 
was feeling Dick’s arrest, and the awful suspense of it 
for her. She was smiling often because she could have 
cried—somehow he understood that. It made him think 
of the little French aristocrat facing the Tribunal with a 
jest on her lips, and going to her death as though to a 
play. With all her childish absurdities, he could see the 
same proud fearlessness in the carriage of her head ; 
probably that is why the simile occurred to Michael, who 
was not given to such imaginings. 

The room was growing darker, the fire dying in the 
grate unheeded. Suddenly the door opened, and in 
flashed Miss Favoril herself. 

“Here I am,’’ she said a little breathlessly, and glowii g 

109 


110 


MERELY MICHAEL 


with colour as though she had been running. Ah . . . 
I have surprised you. ...” 

How tremendous the man was, she thought, just a 
wee bit frightened at her own temerity. 

“You should not have come here alone.” 

Certainly he seemed very big and formidable as he 
stood looking down on her. 

“And now you’re cross, and you think it isn’t proper. 
You funny old-fashioned thing! ” But next moment 
the eagerness was back, and she was bubbling over with 
secrets to tell. “Guess why I’ve come. Guess!” she 
cried. "Only let me make up the fire first. ...” 

She was down on her knees, raking out the ashes and 
fanning the flames into fresh life. Michael watched her 
with a kind of grave solicitude ; then he set himself to 
help, piling up the coals at her bidding until she was 
satisfied. 

“There,” and she snuggled down into a chair. “Isn’t 
it nice ? Now I can tell you all about it.” 

“Shall I ring for tea? ” he suggested, and without a 
smile. 

“It is simply tremendous. I have run all the way to 
tell you. And I met a little man on the way in a big 
check suit. His face looked as if it had been painted a 
bright red, and then varnished over the top, you know.” 

Michael knew. “That was Mr. Kelly.” 

“Well, I have got him,’’she announced. 

“Whom ? ” he asked blankly. 

“I have discovered the murderer.” 

She sat up in her chair, very erect, trying to modulate 
her voice, as though the discovery of murderers—and of 
lost continents—were an everyday occurrence in her 
life. But a certain childish eagerness was giving her 
away. For an instant he regarded her in a puzzled 
sort of fashion. After that, I cannot say what possessed 


MERELY MICHAEL 


111 


him. A daring came upon him. He was enjoying 
her breathless excitement, and the sensation, of being 
able to turn the tables on her was a novel one. 

"Really," he murmured politely, "now do let me 
ring for tea. Do you like muffins ? ’’ And he rang. 

She was telling him she had discovered a murderer, and 
he was asking her if she liked—muffins ! 

She rose, and drew herself up to her full height. " Good- 
afternoon/’ she said with a sort of frozen dignity. Then 
she sat down again. "Why are you being so horrid? t$ 
she asked. 

Michael slowly relaxed his gravity. Then he threw 
back his head, and that great laugh of his rang through 
the room, which made her laugh too. But his daring was 
at an end when he asked her to forgive him, and was very 
humble about it too. 

"Friends? ’’ she queried, and he said, "Of course." 

"That’s all right, then. I was a wee bit afraid you 
had gone back on your bargain, by the way you spoke. 
Now listen," she said, resuming her easy ascendency. 
"I went out for a walk this afternoon. When I got to 
the forest—you remember that path ?—well, I saw Mongini 
walking in front of me. So I stepped to one side and 
followed, dodging about among the bushes and things. 
It was dreadfully rough going, and I got caught in some 
briars and was simply torn to pieces. Look ! " And she 
held out a slim little hand whereon one minute scratch 
appeared. 

"Dreadful! " Michael murmured. 

"And my skirt was torn to ribbons." She calmly 
proceeded to pin up a frayed end which it would have 
taken a miscroscope—or a woman’s eye—to discover. 
When this was completed to her satisfaction, she con¬ 
tinued : "Let me see, where was I? Oh yes—I crept 
along after him and had not gone far when I—I tripped 


112 


MERELY MICHAEL 


over a root and fell/’ she said, tripping over the words in 
her haste. "It was an awful moment, and I thought I 
had lost him. But I found, when I had picked myself 
up, that he had stopped. He was a good long way off, but 
I could see quite distinctly. ... Do you know what 
happened ? " 

"Haven't an idea." 

"Another man came out of the thicket and joined 
him. It was that very Italian whom I saw in Mongini’s 
shop last week. There ! What do you think of it ? " 
And she threw back her head in conscious triumph. 

Then she finished the account of her adventure. Mongini, 
she said, had handed two large parcels to his friend, and 
disappeared almost immediately. Then she came straight 
on to Marley House. " Running all the way, nearly. . . . ** 
She paused, and there was something very childish in the 
way she waited for his appreciation. Apart from a 
personal anxiety, and the anguish it was causing her, 
the mystery of Marley had taken a strong hold of her, and 
the solution of it appealed to the strong vital courage of her. 

Michael felt he had to say something. He temporised. 
The men were worth watching, anyhow, he said. Also 
he expressed the wish that they could have put her in 
charge of the investigations. 

“Only it is a man’s job. . . . Ah," he broke off swiftly, 
“here is Peters with the tea." 

She sat quite silent, cupping her chin in the hollow of 
her hands and regarding Michael thoughtfully. He was 
laughing at her—that was the first shock." 

"You are different to-day, somehow," she said at last. 
"You have the air of a man who has his way in the end. 
. . . Well, we’ll see," and she smiled a little, with her 
eyes on the ground. 

Miss Favoril presided, prattling all the time, and he 
put in a word whenever he got a chance, but he seldom 


MERELY MICHAEL 


113 


was able to catch her up. But he liked listening to her, 
and his smile became intermittent rather than reluctant. 
There was something soft and liquid in her voice ; it was 
a cosy voice too, which fitted in with the firelight. 

“Do you find me a dreadful little chatterbox? ” she 
asked presently. “Dad says I am.” Presently her mood 
changed. “We must find the murderer,’’ she observed. 

“We will.” 

“It is the only way to free poor Dick. Ah, we must.” 
She rose and walked up close to where he was standing 
with his back to the fire. “You know,” she coaxed, 
“you can be rather a dear at times.” And she smiled up 
at him in that tantalising way of hers. 

What was coming now was more than he could guess, 
except that it must be something more than usually 
impossible. 

She moved up just a trifle closer to him. “Listen,” 
she said. “Don’t think me morbid or inquisitive or 
horrid. But I want to see the haunted room. ... You 
are not listening to me,” she exclaimed, as he tried to 
move away. “I’ve been reading in the papers all about 
the dreadful horror of the room—everyone is talking of it. 
And—you will take me to see it, won’t you ? . . . You’re 
still not listening ... I might find something that had 
escaped a man’s notice. Women do, you know.” 

“No,” he answered sturdily. 

“But you will-” 

“I never shall.” 

He shook his head. He did not wish her to see the 
room, and he spoke firmly. She asked him why, and he 
told her. It was gloomy, for one thing, and there were 
associations which might leave a memory behind. . . . 
No, he did not want her to see it. 

“Don’t be so obstinate,” she said to him. 

But even as she spoke she was becoming conscious of 

II 



114 


MERELY MICHAEL 


something that might be quite masterful in Michael. 
He did his best to divert her attention. He talked of 
other things ; then he hinted at the vicar’s getting anxious 
over her long absence. But this she treated with scorn— 
the vicar was not so stupid, and he was used to her by 
this time. 

“Do show it to me,” she coaxed again. 

‘ Good heavens ! ’ he thought, * she has not forgotten 
it yet.’ Something like a groan escaped him. She took 
it for “ Yes.” 

“Come on, then, lead the way,” said she, herself march¬ 
ing off in front. But when she looked back at him he 
was so stern that she realised the extent of his yielding. 

Michael turned on the electric switch in the passage, 
where it was already growing dark, then walked on in 
silence, the girl pattering behind him. He opened the 
door of the old hall and they entered. 

A lurid ray of the sinking sun struck into the room 
through one of the deep narrow windows, the curtain of 
which had been drawn aside. It cast a light upon the floor 
as though it had been stained by blood. Michael lit up 
the room quickly. But electric light was an incongruous 
thing there ; Marley had seldom used it himself, preferring 
candles and lamplight. 

They crossed the old stone flooring, worn with age and 
countless feet. Esmee kept very close to Michael; her lips 
were parted. 

“Is this the place? ” she asked, with a catch in her 
breath as they passed on to the alcove. 

He nodded. 

She cast a quick, nervous look round her and gave a 
little gasp. “I can’t describe it,” she said, lowering her 
voice as though afraid to speak above a whisper, “but 
somehow it fills you with a sort of loathing.” 


MERELY MICHAEL 


115 


Certainly the place looked at its worst in the dying light 
and without a fire. The electric light only served to 
blacken the shadows which lay in wait. 

“ It is like a spider’s web,” she said softly. “Yes, that's 
it—the spider’s parlour. And I feel like the fly. . . . 
Won’t you step in ? Oh ! ” She gave a muffled scream. 
“What was that ? ” 

Only a couple of cats on the roof. There was a large 
colony of them about the stables, he asserted cheerfully, 
though the sudden clamour had startled him too for an 
instant. 

The heavy portiere affected her curiously. She would 
not go near it, nor would she let him lay a finger on it. 
“Because,” she whispered, “it looks as though it might 
conceal—anything. ’' And the old steel breastplate with the 
curious headpiece tilting over it drew her awed attention. 
‘ Something peering through its shadow at us/ she felt. 

“Oh, Michael, I’m frightened! You are more pro¬ 
tective than—than formidable to-day, and I can’t help 
calling you Michael. ... Do you mind ? ” 

“I ought never to have brought you here.” There was 
an undercurrent of emotion in the gruffness of his voice 
as he felt the trembling of her hand on his arm. 

“Take me out of it. . . . Yes, you never ought to have 
brought me here. Why did you ? ” 

And feeling he was solely to blame, he marched her out 
of the room. Though he had remained silent, there was 
the shadow of a smile as he turned away from her; he 
was beginning to learn the rules of feminine logic. But 
as they re-entered the dining-room she turned to him 
with a shamed little look on her face. 

“I fear I am a dreadful little coward in these creepy 
sort of things, and a horrid little cat for blaming you. . . . 
Forgive me.” The generosity of her had risen above such 
rules. 


116 


MERELY MICHAEL 

He settled her comfortably by the fire, wishing to 
laugh her out of her fears before she left. It was all 
nonsense about the haunted room, he told her. " You go 
there to be thrilled-" He stopped, suddenly remem¬ 

bering these were old Jimmy’s identical words ; then he 
added cheerily : "It is all subjective, you know." 

"What's that ? " she queried, her face, like a question 
mark, and her eyes screwed up. 

"Well-" 

But she never would let him finish ; he was too slow 
for that. "I don’t believe you know yourself." She 
pounced upon him. Then with a return of her gaiety, she 
recommended that he discontinue the use of such big words. 

"Subjective," said he, only too glad of the change in 
her, "is the thought, or fear, that arises from you as a 
subject. And objective is that which comes to you from 
some object outside yourself." 

At this juncture Kelly returned and was introduced to 
Miss Favoril. 




CHAPTER XV 

' 'Don’t you think it dreadful of them arresting the 
wrong man like this ? " She put it to Kelly vehemently. 

Kelly nodded. 

"And you have come to arrest the real murderer, Mr. 
Kelly? " 

Kelly had—as soon as ever he could catch him. He 
answered quite gravely, but his red face grew a tinge 
redder, as though with an effort to suppress something. 
Then Miss Favoril told him of her afternoon’s adventure 
in the forest. 

"And now you will catch them ? " she added. 

A slow grin spread over Kelly’s face. "Well, they have 
not gone very far,’’ he observed. "I saw them as I left 
the village. Peters was passing the time of day with 
them in the Cornsheaf as I passed through." 

Michael noticed the eager little face fall. "That’s all 
right," he said. " Kelly is keeping his eye on them." 

"Sure, I am," said Kelly. 

It was a strange wild evening on which Michael set out 
to escort Esmee back to the vicarage. His car had broken 
down, and he had suggested telephoning for a conveyance 
to Marley Pryors ; but the girl said she preferred to walk 
in any case, and that he was not to worry. 

There was a faint luminance in the midst of the wrack 
of furiously driven clouds, but in the long winding avenue 
the night was very black indeed. The old elms, bending 

their boughs to the blast, creaked and groaned ; and in 

U7 


118 


MERELY MICHAEL 


a lull the dead leaves kept pattering along, murmuring to 
themselves as they passed. Then great gusts of wind 
would come sweeping down, buffeting everything in their 
path and passing with that curious thrumming sound 
which heralds the rising of a storm. 

Esmee slid her arm through Michael’s. “I’m fright¬ 
ened,’’ she observed, “and I shall remain frightened until 
we are out of the avenue. Oh, it is a horrid place ! ’’ 

“That is simply because you imagine things about it, 
as I told you before.” 

“Now don’t say that again.” 

“Say what ? ” 

“Subjective.” 

Michael guffawed. “Then I shan’t. I give you my 
word, Miss Favoril.” 

She came to a standstill, halting him with her. “Esmee, 
please,” she corrected softly. 

“Esmee,” he repeated awkwardly, rather like a school¬ 
boy repeating an unprepared lesson. 

“That’s right. Now come along. I don’t know what 
dad will think. You have made me frightfully late as 

U * li 

is. 

And Michael said he was sorry. He was beginning to 
discover it was much the quickest way to shoulder all 
the blame from the outset, with a woman. His education 
was making progress. 

On they trudged, and for a while in silence. But the 
dark and the storm remained full of terrors. Though she 
made light of it now, Michael could feel a tremor on his 
arm, now and then, and he cursed himself again for being 
persuaded to show her the haunted room. The sudden 
hooting of an owl right overhead, and she drew closer to 
him in a panic. 

“I am frightened ! ” and she clung to him for a second. 
This time, as he pointed out, it was only an owl, And 


MERELY MICHAEL 


119 


he laughed—it seemed the only thing to him to do. But 
she drew away and walked on without his arm. 

Presently she asked if he had ever had a sister; and 
when he answered “ No,” wondering a little at the question, 
she said, “Ah, I thought as much.” But she would not 
tell him why. 

They passed through the lodge gates and out into the 
main road. The gloom of the trees was left behind, and 
her independence was reasserting itself. His arm was 
ignored. 

“ So you have no imagination in you ? ” 

“No sentiment either,” he boasted. 

She cast a sidelong look at him, her head on one side. 
“Haven’t you ? ” she echoed softly, and looked upon the 
ground, smiling. He had always mistrusted that down¬ 
ward smile ; in time he came to know how much it might 
conceal. 

“Well, your education has been neglected—that’s all. 
But never mind,” she remarked pleasantly; “you are 
merely Michael, an unimpressionable man and quite im¬ 
movable.” 

He assented to this, smiling slowly back at her. 

The lights were growing closer. They were nearing the 
village ; Michael could see the rise into the High Street 
with the vicarage chimneys beyond. They plodded along 
for a few steps with their heads down, fighting the wind, 
which rose in a sudden fury and ended in a shriek. When 
it was quietened down, she said : 

“You won’t mind me worrying you at odd times like 
this ? ” 

“Not a bit.” Michael was hearty in his reply. 

They would have to meet, she explained, to consult 
over clues and things. And he pointed out that Dick had 
always looked upon him as a brother, so she could command 
him in a similar fashion at all times, 


120 


MERELY MICHAEL 


“Yes, of course,” she replied, and thanked him. 

At the vicarage gate they halted. She asked him to 
come in ; her father would be pleased to see him. Michael 
excused himself. Kelly was waiting, he said, though he 
was careful not to tell her of the vigil planned for the 
night. 

“Michael,” she murmured, as they said good-night, 
“I’ll find her for you some day, I truly will. . . . But 
you’ll have to marry a gardener.” 

“A what? ” 

“A person who digs.” 

He laughed. How absurd she was ! . . . Well, there 
was no sentiment to be dug out of him, thank goodness. 
And he said as much. 

She left him with a memory of something palpitating 
and wonderfully alive : hopeful, eager, and with a cheer¬ 
fulness and charm which radiated from her wherever she 
went. The unexpectedness of her would always hold a 
man and keep him guessing. He was glad that it was 
Dick she was going to marry, for then he would be seeing 
something of her. But a sigh took him unawares as he 
passed from the night into the house. 

He was young enough to think that he held the situation 
well within his grasp. Had he known better, he would 
have thought twice before throwing down a challenge to 
any woman. But then he did not even know it was a 
challenge. 


CHAPTER XVI 

Kelly was comfortably settled by the library fire when 
Michael rejoined him. The decanter was on the table 
and an empty glass, and the little man's face looked rounder 
and redder than ever through the haze of smoke from a 
large Corona which he was visibly enjoying. He had taken 
Michael at his word and made himself thoroughly com¬ 
fortable. With a nod and a smile, Michael pulled a 
chair up to the other side of the fire and started filling his 
pipe. 

Describing his encounter with Dr. Capper, Kelly said : 
“He’s a vulture of a man, that. Murder is meat and 
drink to him—maybe it will prove his poison, too, some 
day. I could not get much out of him this time, though 
I did all I knew to draw him.” 

What he did not mention was the cold-blooded confidence 
of the man which had left behind the unpleasant feeling 
that the little doctor was holding something up his sleeve. 

“Sure the little beast will meet with a sticky end,” 
he continued. “He was nearly done in once in East 
London. . . . Och ! it’s the limut, and it’s not his job 
annyway.” 

He spoke with some heat, the brogue slipping out of him, 
to the temporary extinction of his Yankee twang, and 
Michael concluded that his interview with the doctor had 
met with no success. 

Kelly had begun his inquiries by visiting Mongini in 

fiis shop, where he found Peters in earnest conversation 

181 


122 


MERELY MICHAEL 


with the carpenter. The fact that Peters had troubled 
to explain his presence was sufficient cause in Kelly’s 
mind to assume that he was up to no good; and if that 
were so, then he reckoned it must be something in which 
Mongini was also involved. Therefore there might be 
something of interest in the association of these two, and 
the clue was worth following up from both ends. But, 
he added, there was a big gap in between, and it would 
be unwise to neglect any possible means of neutralising 
any evidence which the prosecution might adduce. There 
was propaganda, for one thing. * The Room of Death * 
was a headline which intrigued him greatly, and he could 
fill a good poster with that. 

“Say what you like, we all of us like our thrill,” he 
theorised. “We are not much past the shilling shocker 
stage, or our little pet shiver down the spine.” 

Here Michael suggested drily that they might get it 
too, before their watch of the night was over, and the 
other gave a laugh. He had forgotten about that, but 
i t would make good copy and he would see to it himself. 

“I’ll begin to write it up now,” he announced. His 
face was creased in smiles as he pulled out a pencil and 
began to write on the back of an envelope. 

Then Peters entered with the post, presenting it to 
Michael in a solemn silence, and leaving the room without 
a word. 

One of Michael's letters was from Warburton, the old 
family solicitor, in reply to certain questions regarding 
Marlev’s will. Now, an examination of the safe had 
disclosed no indications of a tampering with the contents, 
save for that broken elastic band from a bundle of papers 
which were otherwise in perfect order. But, as will be 
remembered, M’Kerrel had found a charred fragment of 
parchment among the ashes on the hearth, with only 
part of a word legible—‘queath’—presumably the ter- 


MERELY MICHAEL 


123 


mination of a word not likely to be used except in some 
testamentary document. There was therefore the obvious 
inference that the murderer should be one interested in 
the destruction of a codicil, or of some freshly drafted will; 
one, at the same time, who was intimately aware of the 
position of affairs. This must lead to an almost over¬ 
whelming condemnation of Dick, taken in conjunction 
with the unfortunate chain of events which had arisen 
through his raising money on the reversion of his uncle’s 
estate. But as far as Michael knew, Dick and he were 
the only two aware of the confession made to Marley; 
and he had warned Dick on no account to admit this, 
thus leaving it to the prosecution to prove that the murdered 
man was cognisant of his nephew’s folly on the night of 
the murder, and thereby strengthening the supposition 
that a codicil had been signed at the last moment dis¬ 
inheriting Dick. But there was not much comfort to be 
gained from this. Already, for all Michael knew, the 
police might have cleared up this point to their own satis¬ 
faction. And he knew, as well as though he had seen 
it done himself, that M’Kerrel had returned to the safe 
to record what finger-prints he might find there, of the 
result of which he must remain in ignorance till the day 
of the trial. 

This, then, had been the occasion of Michael’s writing to 
Warburton, who was wintering in Egypt for his health, and 
the answers to his questions were as favourable as could 
be expected. For, after expressing the horror and grief 
he felt at the death of his old friend, Mr. Warburton re¬ 
collected having prepared the draft of a fresh will and 
submitting it to Marley for approval. By this draft it 
was proposed to exclude the di Contis altogether. In 
Mr. Warburton’s opinion, this decision was due, not only 
to the death of di Conti’s only son, but also to an insulting 
letter subsequently received from tlie di Conti connection, 


124 


MERELY MICHAEL 


a letter which had very properly incensed Harley. But 
the draft will had not been received back, nor had Mr. 
Warburton heard anything further from his client in the 
matter. He knew of no further testamentary document 
prepared for or contemplated by his client. 

Michael explained to Kelly the contents of the letter 
and the circumstances leading up to it, but without dis¬ 
closing the fact of Dick’s confession. 

Kelly flicked the ash from his cigar and reflected. “ Has 
Mr. Warburton any reason to believe that this draft was 
signed ? *’ he asked. 

“No. He can only swear to the preparation of the 
draft—which cannot be found, by the way—and to 
Marley’s expressed intentions in the matter. Poor old 
Warburton was taken ill very suddenly, and was unable 
to transact any business about that time.” 

“Ch’t! That’s a pity. The prosecution will try to 
prove a codicil was destroyed by your friend for reasons 
stated, while we can impute a motive for its destruction 
by quite another angency. They produce young Marley, 
while we can produce no one so far. But we can produce 
evidence of the existence of a draft, and they can only 
assume theirs. . . . Yes, it is a wash-out. In that respect, 
I mean,’’ he added. “And I always say, if you cannot 
refute, neutralise.’’ 

Michael smiled a little grimly. “You ought to have 
been a K.C. yourself, Kelly.’’ 

“An investigator’s is the better part,’’ said Kelly; 
“only give me a man with whom I can collaborate.’* 

After dinner Michael wrote a letter to Miss Favoril 
He had forgotten to tell her that Marley House was being 
shut up, and that he was returning to town the following 
day. He had promised to keep her posted, should any 
new development arise. ‘Don’t be discouraged,’ he 
concluded, ‘ and keep smiling. We will solve the mystery 


MERELY MICHAEL 


125 


soon and free old Dick.* He guessed at what the girl 
was passing through in spite of all her brave concealment 
of it, loving Dick as she did ; and this spurred him on to 
fresh endeavour and made it all the more imperative 
that the whole miserable affair should be cleared up at 
once. 

Peters entered to ask if there were any further orders 
for him, and, receiving a reply in the negative, said good¬ 
night and vanished. None of the servants had been 
informed of the night vigil, and shortly after Peters had 
retired and the house grown quiet, Michael and Kelly 
made their way along to the old wing, fortifying them¬ 
selves against the cold with overcoats. 

There was a gigantic receptacle for fuel in the alcove, 
and a small fire was set alight to counteract the dank, 
vault-like feeling in the air. So small was the fire kept 
that only a faint glow of light ringed the alcove, the hall 
itself being shrouded in darkness. The two men con¬ 
versed for a time in whispers ; but silence fell upon them 
presently and they sat very still, each wrapped in his 
own thoughts. The fire flickered low, then died out in 
the vast hearth, such being Michael’s intention that it 
should. But before the light vanished altogether, Kelly's 
face could be seen to have grown a shade less rosy, and 
there was a nervous tension about it that did not 
escape the other’s notice. It was curious to note the 
superstition of his Irish ancestry at variance with a man’s 
lifelong training. 

In the gloom which settled down upon them there was 
no denying that brooding unrest as of something im¬ 
pending—some horror latent, and not yet realised. Sub¬ 
jective, let us call it, or mental suggestion, or what you 
will. But there it was, whatever the cause. 

Kelly stirred in his chair, and Michael glanced sharply 
in his direction. " ‘The spider’s web ’—not a bad name 


120) 


MERELY MICHAEL 


for it either/' he whispered back in reply, with the 
ghost of a laugh. 

Silence again. Every now and then the hush was 
broken by the dirge of the wind as it moaned to itself 
in the old yew hedge flanking the family vault. Unim¬ 
pressionable as he was, Michael’s thoughts nevertheless 
strayed to old Jimmy, buried there, and who had come 
to his end in this room of death. As time wore on his 
limbs grew cramped ; he feared to change his position, but 
his mind reached a high pitch of concentration and his 
hearing became so acute that he could detect the slightest 
sound. 

The hall was pitch black now, with a blackness as of 
velvet and almost as palpable. Somewhere in the distance 
a dog barked. Kelly started up, then sank back in his 
chair once more with a stifled sigh. 

Silence again. 

Michael could not say how long they sat thus. Minutes 
passed, or it may have been seons in eternity. Time 
had ceased to be. A sense of unreality swept over him, 
pressing down upon his consciousness. In his own words, 
as expressed to me long afterwards : “I, Michael Frayne 
—an unimaginative bloke—became as it were detached 
from the body. The world had gone from underneath me 
and I was looking down on the scene from above, viewing 
myself as I sat on a chair in the darkness. ... It is all 
rot, I know. I must have dozed off, and the shadow of 
that old dream came back to me. . . . But there it is.” 
And he passed it off with a laugh, but not to another soul 
would he have admitted so much. 

He did not know how long the feeling lasted—seconds 
or centuries. Then suddenly a sound brought him to 
his senses—a sound that froze the blood. He could hear 
Kelly’s breathing, but though the two were seated close 
together, their faces were hidden from one another in 


127 


MERELY MICHAEL 

the darkness. He stretched out a warning hand in his 
fear that the other was going to move. And so they 
waited. . . . 

The world had grown very silent again. Small sounds 
carried far; a tiny rustle in the ivy outside as a bird 
stirred in the leaves ; a rat at the far end of the hall, 
faintly scratching its way along the wainscoting. Then 
all silent as the grave once more. 

Suddenly again the same sound that seemed to have 
grown out of nothing. Kelly’s hands were gripping the 
arms of his chair, tightly and more tightly, until the veins 
corded out, and he grew numb with the ache to move. 
A soft padding. A faint scraping on a stone step— 
another. A third, up and nearer. Kelly was tense and 
quivering, as a man about to hurl himself at death. Michael 
was praying the other might not move ; he dare not even 
whisper. 

Silence. A breathless expectancy of horror. The 
curtain rustled. Then, softly, out of nothing, a ghostly 
impact. . . . 

“Holy saints! ’’ Kelly leaped to his feet, unable to 
hold himself an instant longer. 

Michael jumped up, flashing on his electric torch. “You 
fool! ’’ he cried, gripping Kelly’s arm in a fury. “Oh, 
you fool! ’ ’ and he flung the other from him. The madness 
passed, but for one moment it had been a murderous rage 
which had come upon him in that room of death. 

He rushed to the portiere, tore it aside, and peered 
into the blackness below. There was nothing to be seen. 
A sudden icy breath of air, a fluttering sound, and all was 
silent as before. Down the stairs he clattered, Kelly at 
his heels, and out by the conservatory door into the 
shrubbery beyond. Working over every inch of ground 
with a torchlight, they found not a trace of anything, and 
not a sound arose save that of the night-wind among the 


128 


MERELY MICHAEL 


trees. At last they had to give it up and admit defeat. 

“Not a trace of mortal man or beast, and that’s a fact. 
What can it have been at all ? ’’ 

Kelly’s face was almost pale. Michael scowled at him. 

“Are you a detective or a—'spook-shifter ’? Isn’t it 
a fact that a murderer will sometimes revisit the scene of 
his crime, if for no other motive than that ? . . . Either 
that, or else, there was nothing but what our thoughts 
made of it.” 

But poor little Kelly was already so ashamed that 
Michael repented in an instant of his words. After all, it 
was largely a matter of temperament. He must not 
forget either, the curious spell cast over himself in that 
room which begot spells. 

“Sorry, old man, I was pretty near it myself,” he said 
in a changed tone. “I am beginning to think there was 
nothing to it after all. Only the weird sounds of the old 
place, and its associations. It was like a dream the way 
it fitted in, and like a dream it leaves no traces. . . . No, 
there was nothing to it but our thoughts. I'm sorry, 
Kelly.” 

“For nearly murdering me ? Well, that’s all right. I 
could just about murder myself for giving way like that. 

And so ended the first night-watch. 


CHAPTER XVII 

Dick had been committed for trial on the charge of murder, 
and was lodged in the county gaol. 

He was pacing up and down his cell. “No, I can't 
face it, “he muttered to himself. “ It is this awful waiting," 
and he kept on repeating : “ This awful waiting." 

Michael had said he would see him through ; and this, 
from Michael, had been enough. It had seemed at the 
time to leave no room for despair. But the iron of restraint 
and of inaction bit deeper as the days dragged on, and 
bitter moods followed; moods when he thought himself 
deserted of his friends ; moods when he conjured up a 
mass of evidence piled up in a hopeless array against 
him, and then in his thoughts he would enter the con¬ 
demned cell and finally pass on pinioned to the gallows’ 
foot. For his brain was an active one, and imagination 
ate into it like a canker. But there were times, too, 
when, numbed with exhaustion, his mind would become a 
blank and he could think of nothing at all. 

Dick had been in prison for some days before Michael 
obtained an order to see him. 

It was a perfect morning, with a bright sun and a crisp¬ 
ness in the air, one of those exquisite days in late autumn 
which sets the blood racing in the veins and makes of life 
a good thing. The glowing tints of a distant coppice, the 
glorious russet of a beech hedge, with the deep blue of a 
cloudless sky above—this was the world into which Michael 
sped on his way to visit Dick. 

129 


I 


130 


MERELY MICHAEL 


What a contrast! he reflected. All this beauty of 
God’s creation, and that which the created have made 
of it. And at thought of Dick lying there, shut out from 
all this world of sunshine, the light and colour passed 
from the landscape, and the world grew old and grey. 

He was prepared for a change in Dick, but not for the 
shock that awaited him. It was not that the healthy tan 
had left Dick’s face, nor that he was looking pale and drawn, 
with great dark rings under his eyes. It was his look of 
utter despair which went to Michael’s very heart. 

He had no sooner entered the cell than Dick asked : 
“ How long are they going to keep me here ? I cannot 
stand this waiting. It is not death I am frightened of— 
it is this awful waiting. . . .” He searched Michael’s 
face. 

It was with difficulty that Michael met the question 
he had dreaded. The answer he had to give was so pitiably 
inadequate ; and as he spoke he realised—for it was 
difficult for a man of his nature to put himself in Dick’s 
place—what it all meant to one of Dick’s temperament. 

At the end of it Dick broke out : "I am game for any 
sort of fate in the open. But here I am like a rat in a 
trap. I can't go on like this ; I tell you I can’t.” 

His eyes kept moving about like an animal looking for 
a way of escape. He kept passing his hands through his 
short, crisp hair. 

“ It may be a longer job than we thought, but we’ll 
have you out of it soon, old fellow. Don’t ever think 
we’re forgetting you.” Michael spoke gruffly enough, to 
conceal the feeling that was in him. 

But Dick was not listening; a sudden, impotent rage 
had seized him. “ What in God’s name have they put me 
here for ? ” He clenched his fists and resumed his pacing 
up and down. "I’ve done nothing to deserve it. Damn 
them 1 ” 


MERELY MICHAEL 


131 


Suddenly the irony of it struck him, and he laughed ; 
but that laugh, so unlike Dick’s, struck deeper than his 
anger into Michael’s heart. 

“I’ll be thinking myself guilty if I stay here much 
longer. . . . Michael, tell me what sort of a chance have 
I got of getting out ? The truth, old fellow ! ’’ 

He grew calmer as he listened to what was being done, 
and all that had transpired since his arrest. He sat down 
with his head sunk forward ; only when Michael had 
finished did he look up. 

“ And Esm6e—how is she taking it ? ’’ 

“ In her own brave way. She has been just splendid.’’ 
And Michael related in greater detail what she had said 
and done. 

Dick spoke of his love for her and of his hopes, the 
resilience of his nature beginning to reassert itself. “ Such 
a plucky little soul! ’’ he exclaimed. “ Rides straight at 
a difficulty as she does at her fences. You know, there's 
no stopping her when she settles down to it.” 

Michael encouraged him to speak of her with a word 
here and there to keep him going, till Dick himself turned 
the topic : 

“ How are the horses ? And old Larry, how is he doing ? 
Is the keeper seeing to his dope all right ? ” This in reference 
to a retriever well stricken in years and rheumatism, but 
much beloved, as were all Dick’s dogs and horses. And 
so he went on talking of these until the time was nearly 
up. Then he rose, laying a hand affectionately on the 
other’s shoulder. He said : “ Good old Mickey ! You've 
been a great brick. You’ve given me fresh hopes and 
courage to go on with. God bless you, old fellow.” 

He gave his friend's arm a squeeze. And had you seen 
Michael’s eyes then you would have noticed in them that 
protective softness contradicting the sterner lines of his 
face. 


132 


MERELY MICHAEL 


“Look after that new hunter of mine, Mickey. He's 
got the makings of a top-notcher in him. Try him ; I’d 
like you to. And don’t forget old Larry—and Esm6e, too. 
Don’t forget any of them.*’ 

And Michael promised, faintly smiling to himself at 
the order in which his charges came. 

He looked at his watch. His half-hour was nearly up, 
and there was that which he had still to remind Dick of. 
He glanced swiftly round the room. No sign of anyone 
listening; all the same, he drew nearer to Dick, and lowered 
his voice to say : 

“ Don’t on any account admit that you confessed to 
old Jimmy that night. You haven't, Dick, have you ? ’’ 

Dick shook his head. “ But, by God, I shall never know 
if he forgave me. That will always remain.” 

“ Of course he did. But only you and I must ever 
know—remember ! ” 

There came a sound of a footfall outside. Michael 
heard it and resumed his natural tone : “ That’s all right 
then. Well, old man, time’s up. Keep smiling ; we'll soon 
have you out of here.” 

His own heart was heavy as lead, but he had cheered 
Dick up a bit, for when he left Dick was looking more 
comforted. 

As he stepped out into the sunshine and the breeze, he 
glanced back at the dismal grey of the prison building, 
and his heart ached again as he thought of Dick, with all 
his love of the open, mewed up there. And there he was 
leaving him—-the friend whom he loved more than his 
own immortal soul. 

Returning to his rooms, he found a note from Bailey to 
say that he would look round again, later in the evening, 
and to suggest that they dine somewhere together, if 
Frayne happened to be at a loose end like himself. 


MERELY MICHAEL 


133 


Michael was feeling curiously depressed, and had been 
looking forward to a quiet dinner at home ; besides, he 
was half expecting Kelly to drop in later, if not for dinner. 
So he rang the bell and gave orders for dinner to be served 
in his sitting-room for all three. 

It was shortly after six when Bailey arrived. He, too, 
looked tired and out of spirits, and seemed to welcome a 
quiet evening as much as Michael himself. 

Their conversation drifted in time to the tragedy in 
which they were both so closely interested. Michael 
spoke of his visit to Dick, and presently he said: 

” Well, that is the third tragedy in the history of Marley, 
and it's like to be the last.” 

And he told Bailey how the servants, one and all, had 
refused to live in the place a day longer. There had been 
no alternative but to close it up, leaving it to Dick to do 
as he thought best with it as soon as he was at liberty 
once more. But he fancied Dick would never want to 
live in it again. He continued : 

“ You must have seen the notoriety the Press has 
been giving to what they call ‘The Room of Death/ 
That in itself is sufficient to condemn the house in the 
eyes of all the serving world. I was unable to get a 
caretaker for love or money. Not one of them would 
look at it.” 

Bailey leaned forward in his chair, gazing into the fire. 
” Do you know, I cannot blame them,”he said. “ I should 
not care to take on the job myself. I have always felt 
there was something in it. You are a man of little imagina¬ 
tion, but you surely cannot have helped noticing some¬ 
thing of the sort yourself.” 

Michael thought : ‘ What a nervous fellow he is, fidget¬ 
ing about in his chair and never altogether at rest in all 
his body at any one time/ There was, too, that nervous 
twitching of the face muscles which he had noticed before. 


134 


MERELY MICHAEL 


Poor Bailey! His was not the temperament to shake 
off easily the memory of the trenches, and the ghastly 
tragedy at Marley had made it worse. 

“ You know, Frayne, I almost envy you at times, never 
troubled by a nerve in that great body of yours. I do 
not suppose you even know what fear means. Still, he 
hesitated, looking down into the fire with a curious un¬ 
fathomable look in his eyes, “you miss a lot, too. . . . 
Terror has always been at the root of my soul; even as a 
small boy I can remember that. Not fear, you under¬ 
stand ? But terror. There is a difference, though I don’t 
suppose you will grasp it. One thing I do mean is that I 
am not easily frightened in the physical sense. Then, it 
is not a thing that paralyses thought ; it is something 
which stimulates the mind as nothing else can. It is 
like a drug. I have knocked about in a lot of queer places ; 
but I knew it best in France as a sort of ecstasy in the 
blood.” He broke off suddenly with a laugh. “Forgive 
me. I am boring you, I fear, with my musings.” 

But it more than bored Michael, all this psychology ; 
it filled him with a mild contempt. 'Examining their 
insides ' is what he termed it, of those who were given 
to it. 

He looked at the clock and yawned. “ Well,” he said, 
“ I have got the fear now—that Kelly is going to be late 
for dinner. We had better start without him.” He rang 
the bell, then stood with his back to the fire, stretching 
the muscles of his great frame. In answer to Bailey’s 
query he explained who Kelly was. 

“ We have discovered nothing so far,” he added. 

" As I told you before, you will find that the solution of 
it lies there—in the old hall. I’m sure of it, Frayne ; not 
in searching about for phantom di Contis. It is a psychical 
expert you want, not a criminal one. It is there I’ll be 
able to help you yet, I hope.” 


MERELY MICHAEL 


135 


When he chose, Bailey could be a most fascinating 
companion, being unusually well-read; besides, having 
travelled in odd corners of the globe, he had picked 
up many a curious bit of information which was of 
interest. He had a distinct leaning towards the occult, 
but he now avoided the topic in deference to his host's 
pronounced dislike of the subject; and as dinner pro¬ 
gressed he threw off, too, his morbidly introspective 
mood. Michael listened to him with increasing attention, 
so that he quite regretted the interruption caused by 
Kelly's arrival shortly after ten o'clock; but there was 
nothing lacking in the heartiness with which he greeted 
the little man. 

" Well, Kelly, how goes it ? Draw up your chair to 
the fire and give us your news. . . . You don't know one 
another, so let me introduce you." 

" Pretty parky to-night," Kelly observed, after settling 
himself to his satisfaction. He regretted his inability to 
come to dinner, explaining the cause that had detained 
him. 

When Michael asked if anything of importance had 
come to light, he noticed Kelly dart a look at Bailey and 
then back to himself again. So he said : 

“ Bailey knows all about it, Kelly. He was at Marley 
the night of the murder, you know ; apart from that, as a 
friend, he is deeply interested in the case." 

Kelly then informed them that he had news of a di 
Conti said to have been in Australia in the early part of 
his life. He had died in Italy, and had a son who was 
killed in the war ; so that, as far as they went, the par¬ 
ticulars fitted in. He added : 

“ I was able to get no further than that, except that 
there is none of the family now left in that part of Italy. 
But there is reason to believe that some connection of 
theirs has recently moved to England." 


136 MERELY MICHAEL 

Michael’s face lit up. “ Kelly,” he exclaimed, “this is 
great! ” 

“ Well, it is a step in the right direction; at least, it 
seems to be.” 

Kelly apologised for talking shop ; but if Mr. Bailey 
had no objection, he would like to put to him certain 
questions regarding the tragedy itself. 

“It is always the details that count, even those which 
appear to be of relative unimportance. And you, Mr. 
Bailey, might be able to throw some fresh light on the 
case—some little thing which may have escaped Mr. 
Frayne.” 

But Bailey was unable to add much to the particulars 
which Michael had already furnished. He had noticed 
nothing unusual on the occasion on which he had last 
seen Marley alive. No, he had heard no shot on the 
night of the murder. His bedroom was next to Frayne’s, 
both of them a considerable way from the old hall. Dick 
Marley’s room was on the other side of the passage and 
almost opposite. 

“But I’ll tell you what—there’s something deuced 
curious about that old hall, as I’ve just been telling Frayne. 
Have you noticed it yourself, Mr. Kelly ? ” 

“ It's a rummy old place, from what I could see of it.” 
This Kelly admitted reluctantly, with a flicker of his 
eyelids as his glance encountered Michael’s. 

But an answering smile reassured him. His folly was 
a safe secret with Frayne. 


CHAPTER XVIII 

M'Kerrel is one of the least demonstrative men I have 
ever known ; yet he is, somehow, one of the most likeable. 
His friendships are of the reluctant order; once formed 
—but only after the growth of time, mark you—they are 
of the stuff that lasts. When he takes his ease, and when 
the whisky is to his liking, it would be hard to find a more 
genial companion anywhere. He is a widower,and likely 
to remain so ; he lives for his work now, and for that son 
of his whom I have mentioned before. 

There is a certain restaurant in Soho where, seated at 
his favourite table in the corner, you will commonly find 
him at lunch ; a place, by the way, which has become 
known as * M’Kerrel's pub 1 by his intimates. Michael, 
too, is to be found there not infrequently, and on a Saturday 
it is his almost invariable custom ; in fact, it has become 
an unwritten law that he should join M'Kerrel for luncheon 
on that day, should nothing arise to prevent it. Sometimes 
I drop in and take part in their discussions, which range 
from Plato to Pelmanism, from cabbages to kings. But 
criminology and the inner workings of the human mind in 
general are the topics which chiefly absorb their attention. 

It was the first time the two had met since the arrest. 
M'Kerrel's manner was not effusive—it seldom is—but on 
this occasion there was a slight constraint noticeable at 
first. It soon wore off, however, for their friendship had 
too great a depth in it to fall even a temporary victim to 
any incident of the day’s work, however great. 

137 


138 


MERELY MICHAEL 


They were seated over their coffee when, in a lull in 
the conversation, Michael suddenly turned to M’Kerrel. 

“ Bob M’Kerrel," said he, facing his friend squarely, 
" what are the chances ? ’’ 

M’Kerrel shot a glance at him from under his shaggy 
eyebrows. A smaller man would have temporised; not 
so M’Kerrel. He understood the question, and he answered 
it in his own blunt way : 

" Speaking unofficially, there is no getting away from 
the fact that a very strong case has been established 
against your friend." A roughness in his voice concealed 
the kindly sympathy that lay beneath. 

Michael leaned forward, biting hard on the end of his 
cigar : "As bad as that ? It can’t be ! The evidence is 
so circumstantial." 

"And isn’t all evidence circumstantial in a murder 
case ? Unless the murderer is caught red-handed—and 
you know how seldom that is so. You see, my friend, 
circumstantial evidence can be quite convincing. For 
instance, a trout in the milk, to quote Thoreau’s example 
of it. It is a fact that circumstance may be shown to 
meet the case of more than one suspect in the same crime. 
But here the Crown is working on a very strong motive, 
as you must know for yourself. A very strong motive 
indeed," M’Kerrel repeated with a sigh. "That is the 
worst of it." 

" But you don’t believe-’’ 

" I don’t believe, and I don’t disbelieve, Michael. That 
is my attitude. You ask me as friend to friend-’’ 

But Michael cut him short: " No, as man to man." 

" Still, it is a matter touching my work—and there I’m 
neutral, as you might say. As a friend, I am truly sorry. 
But there is no blinking the facts, and no getting away from 
the motive." 

"Oh, damn the motive ! ’’ 




MERELY MICHAEL 


139 


‘'Quite so,” and M’Kerrel gave a dry smile. “And at 
times it is the motive itself that damns in the dock. I 
admit that the question of motive is a very complicated 
one at times. And I’m not saying your friend has not 
got a chance. He has. That chance known as the benefit 
of the doubt which a British jury—to give it its due— 
views in a broader light these days. Then, in spite of 
our little doctor, there is just the remote chance of suicide 
to weigh in with them. And there is all that ‘mystery ’ 
talk of which the papers have been making so much copy 
these past few days. I am not trying to comfort you. 
But,” and he paused and eyed his friend keenly for a 
moment, “just one more grain in the scale against him, 
and I would not give much for his chances.” 

“But, Mac, it is an absurd charge for anyone to make 
who knows anything about him. I put it to you. Let 
us get away from the case, and suppose for a moment. 
There is your son : you would not suspect him of any 
crime under the sun.” 

“Absolutely not.” 

Michael leaned forward with his elbow on the table, and 
said, speaking very earnestly : “No more would I. Very 
well then ; but just suppose he were accused of cattle- 
maiming, let us say, and that everything were against 
him. And suppose you had seen him with your own eyes 
leaving the field with blood on his hands, just after the 
event. Would you still believe him innocent ? 

“Aye ! I would that.” 

“Why? ” 

And without a moment’s thought M’Kerrel replied : 
“Because I would know he was incapable of such a thing. 
I see what you are driving at: the knowledge of a man’s 
nature against the circumstance, or coincidence, of the 
case. But circumstantial evidence has got to stand, 
Michael, as things go. Innocent men have been hanged 


140 


MERELY MICHAEL 


before now, though such a miscarriage of justice is nothing 
like so common as some sensational fiction would have 
you to suppose. Yet,” he admitted, “there is something 
in what you say. And who can tell ? The psycho- 
metrical treatment of a case may be a possibility of the 
future. Even now more attention is being paid to the 
state of the mind than used to be given to it ; but much 
greater progress must be made in the labyrinth of 
psychology and metaphysics before we can arrive at 
anything approaching an acceptable analysis. What we 
are still concerned with is objective evidence, and so it 
must continue until some sort of meter of the mind is 
devised.” 

A slow smile stealing across Michael’s face erased the 
sterner lines of it. “I thought you would see it like 
that, Mac. Now tell me: do you really think Dick 
Marley is guilty ? ” 

M’Kerrel’s eyes twinkled. “ I am neutral, as I said. 
But speaking unofficially, I cannot deny the feeling that 
he is as innocent as you or I. Otherwise I would not 
have-” But he did not finish the sentence. 

He was lost in thought for a moment, his dreaming 
Celtic eyes fixed on the haze of tobacco smoke above him. 
At last he spoke : 

“ I am not telling you anything you are not aware of 
yourself, Michael. I am simply marshalling known 
facts. First, then, every probability points to murder, 
not suicide. Second, young Marley had every reason to 
forestall a codicil which might have disinherited him* 
Third, he was the last to be seen with his uncle before 
the crime. Fourth, there is that Colt automatic he had 
received back from the gun-makers the very day of tlie 
murder—we found it concealed in his room.” He stopped 
and examined the long white ash so carefully preserved 
at his cigar-end. 



MERELY MICHAEL 


141 


So Dick had hidden it after all! Michael showed not a 
sign, except that the lines on his face deepened. 

M’Kerrel resumed : “ The fact that the barrel was clean 
means nothing, of course. There was time enough to 
clean it, as the murderer naturally would have done. 
Man, it was a peety! ... Of course, the theory is that 
the murder was committed with a pistol of like calibre, 
and that the murderer slipped silently round the curtain, 
shooting his man from behind before he could stir. There 
was no sign of a struggle. Naturally there is a strong 
suspicion, as you know for yourself, that the dead man’s 
pistol was substituted for the murderer’s by one who knew 
the secret of the panel. And thus an attempt was made 
to give the semblance of suicide to what can only have 
been murder.” 

M’Kerrel finished off what remained in his glass. Then 
Michael broke in : 

” You have marshalled your facts. Now I will marshal 
mine.” 

"No. Better reserve that for Kelly. And if you 
cannot get much positive evidence, then make the most 
of the negative.” 

An idea passing through Michael’s mind just then, he 
put it into words : " Mac, that afternoon at Marley, 
after you left us, you were trying to obtain such finger¬ 
prints as might be remaining on the safe.” 

M’Kerrel grew instantly grave. "I am not telling you 
anything you don’t already know,” he answered, with 
scarcely a trace of rebuke in his tones. 

Michael sat up, squaring his great shoulders. " Forgive 
me,” he said. " I had forgotten.” 

** Nothing to forgive between friends,” was all M’Kerrel 
said. His was an understanding mind. 

There was a newsboy, as they passed into the street, 
shouting out: “ The Marley mystery—all the latest I ” 


142 


MERELY MICHAEL 


Michael bought a paper and opened it out. ' The Room 
of Death/ and ‘ Was there a Sinister Influence at Work ? ' 
He was met with these in thick black type. 

“ Wherein I perceive the hand of Kelly,” said M’Kerrel, 
glancing over his friends shoulder and chuckling quietly. 

It was a dull November afternoon ; the rain was coming 
down with a dull persistency. 

“A beast of a day ! ” Michael observed. "Come into 
my rooms and have a smoke, M’Kerrel.” 

And M'Kerrel assenting, they entered upon Jermyn 
Street. But there a surprise awaited them. 


CHAPTER XIX 

The surprise took the shape of Miss Esmee herself—a 
very pleasant form it was, too. 

She greeted Michael in her airy fashion as he entered 
his sitting-room: “Hullo! Dad and I are up in town 
for an ecclesiastical conference. I escaped. Here I 
am, and I want you to tell me the very latest.’’ 

She got it all out without pausing to take breath, and 
without giving Michael a chance to present M’Kerrel, who 
was standing somewhere in the background regarding the 
girl in a solemn amazement. 

“First of all let me present to you Mr. M’Kerrel— 
you have seen him before, I believe.” Michael made 
this latter statement with a grim little smile to himself. 

“How d’ye do ? ’’ she said in a voice of icy formality. 
Then she turned abruptly to Michael, and her eyes were 
anxious. 

“Any good news ? ” 

He shook his head. 

“No bad? ” 

“None at all! ” 

Her lips were parted to speak, but he broke in : “This 
is the horrid man from Scotland Yard whom you saw at 
Marley Pryors. You remember? 

“Michael ! ’’ she exclaimed. 

“Yes, it’s true. A horrid man you called him.’’ 

“I never-’’ But instead of finishing, she cast a 

look at him from under her lashes. * Very well,’ it seemed 

143 



144 


MERELY MICHAEL 


to say. ‘ Just you wait.’ There was a pink glow in her 
cheeks, her eyes shone. 

M'Kerrel’s face lit up as he watched her. There was a 
look of appreciation in his sleepy blue eyes, and this may 
have had something to do with it—for, womanlike, the 
glance did not escape her notice ; or it may only have 
been M’Kerrel's smile. At all events, it is a fact that her 
manner had thawed as she turned to him and said: 

“It is only Michael who is being horrid, Mr. M'Kerrel. 
I don’t think you ever could be. Not really.’’ And she 
held out her hand to him in the frank, impulsive way 
that endeared her to everyone. 

But it was M’Kerrel who was the revelation. The 
polished courtesy of his bearing towards a woman was 
what astonished Michael. From where did he get that 
innate chivalry of a bygone age—this son of the outer 
islands ? 

Miss Esm£e was doing most of the talking. Indeed, it 
is seldom otherwise, the little chatterbox that she is ! 
But her voice is soft and there is a hidden laugh in it, so 
let it pass. M'Kerrel listened with a grave smile, and 
attentively. He was finding it a pleasure to watch the 
light and shade that flitted across her face as she talked. 

“ It is only a matter of time until we prove him innocent. 
Mr. Frayne and I are on the track of the real murderer.’’ 
She then proceeded to narrate for M’Kerrel's benefit her 
shadowing of the assassins through the forest. “Of 
course,” she admitted, “they may only have been ac¬ 
complices, though I think myself they were the murderers 
—or at least that one of them was.” 

Her violet eyes grew round with mystery. 

They talked for a time, and her liking for M’Kerrel grew 
more apparent. Stranger still that such a man should 
forsake the reserve of a lifetime, and respond. When he 
took his leave it was with an old-world grace. 


MERELY MICHAEL 


145 


"'If I could be of any assistance to you/’ he said, "I 
should be indeed happy." And he bowed over her hand. 

" What a nice old thing! " she exclaimed, after he 
had left. "He looked as if he were going to kiss my 
hand as they did in the old days." 

Presently she said : " Were you pleased to see me, 
Michael ? " 

" Yes—and now I'll see you home." 

She began to laugh at that. 

"What's the matter? " he inquired. 

"Oh, nothing ! " And that is all the reply she would 
give him. 

Her eyes grew very bright as they passed out into the 
street. 

" I do get such a big pain at my heart when I come 
into the open. I think of him shut up there-" 

There was a little break in her voice. But when she 
looked up at his face : " Poor old Mickey," she murmured 
in the dear, sympathetic way of hers. " I know you are 
feeling it the same as I am. And we both understand, 
don’t we ? " 

Before she reached her destination she slipped an 
arm through his in the darkness. She said: 

" Dear old person, it is such a comfort to have you. 
You are rather a nice lean-upon, you know, when you 
don’t happen to be formidable.' 


K 



CHAPTER XX 


Some days elapsed without anything of note occurring. 
Kelly was following up his clue as energetically as ever, 
but was unable to report further progress ; and the lull 
that ensued, with its powerless inactivity, was beginning 
to shake even Michael’s calm. 

The sands were running out without the accomplish¬ 
ment of anything tangible in Dick’s favour ; and the 
mystery which had at first baffled was beginning to fill 
Michael now with a vague dread. He was not a man 
susceptible to moods, but the sight of Dick in prison, and 
the knowledge of Esmee’s anxiety, were both affecting 
him to a greater extent than he himself realised. In spite 
of a somewhat stern, uncompromising outlook on life in 
general, he was tender-hearted where his friends were 
concerned. 

The feeling left him in the course of a busy day; but 
as night came on, and he returned to his solitary chambers, 
there was time to think, and then it was that the op¬ 
pression would return to him with a greater force than 
ever. 

His mind was besieged by questions, and he kept turning 
over and over again the unsolved riddle of old Jimmy’s 
death, marshalling facts and looking at them from every 
angle of vision. He had a fairly analytical mind; and 
if he never turned it inwards upon himself, at least his 
deductions were free enough of emotion to be logical. 

To-night he was tormented with theories. There was 

146 


MERELY MICHAEL 


147 


something troubling him, of which he was subconsciously 
aware all the time, something which he should be able 
to grasp. Every now and then he seemed to be getting 
near to it, but it always eluded him at the last. He un¬ 
dressed and got into a dressing-gown, then he made up 
a good fire and sat beside it, smoking. At first he tried to 
read, but for once his mind refused to detach itself and 
concentrate on the print. So he gave it up at last and 
yielded to the tyranny of his thoughts, which, as before, 
led him nowhere. 

It must have been some time after ten when the telephone 
bell began to ring: softly at first, then breaking into a 
fusillade of sound. When he took up the receiver he did 
not recognise the voice at first, nor were the words distinct, 
being broken into by a buzzing over the wire that was 
peculiarly irritating at that time of night. At last,in a 
more or less clear interval, he realised that it was Esmee 
who was trying to talk to him from Marley Pryors. 

“Oh, it is infuriating ! ” she said. “I've been trying 
to get you since seven o’clock, and there has always been 
something wrong with the beastly thing. . . 

Buzz-buzz. . . . Stop ! As if in support of the state¬ 
ment, her voice suddenly faded out and was no more. 

“ Have you finished there ? ’’ inquired a sleepy voice 
from Exchange. 

Michael was thoroughly roused now. He snapped back: 
“Not begun yet. Hold the line, please. . . . Hullo ! ’’ 

“ Hullo ! ’’ echoed back faintly from an infinite point in 
space. Next instant Esmee’s voice sounded as though she 
had been speaking into his ear ; the contrast was startling. 

“ Where did you get to ? ’’ 

“ Nowhere.” 

“ Oh, bother ! But look here, Michael, let me tell you 
about it before this horrid buzzing starts again. It is 
dreadfully important.” 


148 


MERELY MICHAEL 


“ I’m listening.” 

“ Now do just as I tell you. ... I want you to motor 
down first thing to-morrow morning.” 

“Yes?” said Michael. He was wondering how it 
could be managed ; there was work he would find a 
difficulty to lay aside. “Would no other day do ? ” he 
asked. 

“ No, it would not / . . . Bring a bag in case you are 
delayed overnight. And bring a revolver and an electric 
torch. I think that’s all. But don’t forget the revolver.” 

“Yes. But what is it all about ? ” 

“A clue. Tell you about it when we meet. I am so 
excited. Good-night. Don't forget anything.” 

“ But-” he began. Then— 

Buzz-buzz went the telephone. 

“Good-night,” from the other end of creation. Buzz 
again. 

“ Time’s up ”—snappily from Exchange. And that was 
all. No way of getting out of it now. 

There was nothing for it but to postpone his work, and 
be off bright and early the next morning in his little car, 
on a quest the meaning of which he was in total ignorance. 
Hers was a summons he had pledged himself to honour, 
so there he left it without further speculation upon its 
possibilities. 

It was a nice fresh morning, though the horizon was 
ringed with a haze. Once clear of the heavier traffic, he 
let the engine out, and shot along at racing speed. The 
car was running smoothly, there was a pleasant nip in the 
air, and the speed in itself was enough to stir the blood in 
a man’s veins. 

He arrived at Marley Pryors shortly after eleven, and 
at the gate he encountered the old vicar, setting out on a 
morning tramp. 



MERELY MICHAEL 


149 


“Good-morning, Frayne," he said in his pleasant, in¬ 
decisive voice. “My daughter is expecting you, I believe, 
and is ail impatience. I have only a vague idea what it 
is about. Doubtless she will be able to enlighten you, 
but I must confess to finding her rather bewildering at 
times. But there, I am of a past age, and confess my 
inability to keep pace with the times. I find myself losing 
touch. ..." And he tailed off with the lack of finality 
which distinguished his scholarly mind : “See you at 
lunch," and with his vague, kindly smile he was gone. 

Esmee was standing at the door of the vicarage, the 
light shining on her head. She waved to Michael as he 
turned the corner of the drive, at the same time shaking 
her head as if in despair of ever accelerating his speed. 

“I thought you were never coming," she said, while he 
stood, immensely massive and silent, looking down on her 
from a frowning height. 

She broke into a smile, and continued : 

“Never mind. Come along. I'm dying to tell you all 
about it. You've had breakfast, of course ? " Michael 
nodded. “Well, just wait a moment while I get my hat 
on. We are going for a walk." 

“Please, may I ask what for ? " Michael queried. 

“Presently. Just have a little patience now." 

And with that she left him. He listened to the flying 
patter of her feet up the stairs, and the hurried banging of 
her door. 

They were well out of the village, on the open road, and 
in broad daylight; nothing larger than a blade of grass 
to conceal any potential plotter. Even Billy, the fox-terrier 
could find nothing to bark at. Yet she glanced carefully 
about her and lowered her voice before saying, with an 
immense impressment: 

“A real clue at last, Michael." Her eyes were dancing 
with untold secrets. 


150 


MERELY MICHAEL 


He was dying to hear it, he whispered back, and her eyes 
grew brighter still. 

" It’s like this," she began. " I had occasion to go round 
by the carpenter’s shop yesterday afternoon in regard to a 
bookshelf which Dad had sent for repairs. Mongini was 
there himself. He was reading a letter ; but when he saw 
me enter he tore it up as he turned to attend to me. I told 
him what I had come about, and would he please see to it 
himself. . . . And it worked, Michael, beautifully. You 
see, I knew his workshop lay across an open yard and that 
he would have to leave me for a minute alone in the shop. 
The instant he was gone I picked up a handful of his torn 
letter, and had just managed to cram it into my pocket 
when he returned. ... I spent the whole afternoon 
piecing the bits together; then when I had succeeded, I 
telephoned to you. It was well on to midnight before I 
could get through—it was so exasperating ! ’’ 

"It must have been—for the vicar too." 

"Oh, Dad—nothing ever ruffles him. He is wrapped 
up in his books, and is just the most absent-minded old 
darling you could possibly wish for." 

She pulled from her pocket a well-thumbed scrap of 
paper, neatly pasted together on a backing of cardboard. 

"See, here it is," she said. 

"By Jove ! How jolly clever of you." 

" Oh, it was nothing," she said, smiling upon the ground 
in a rather pleased way with her small self. 

Michael examined the sheet, and this is what he read : 

"Hanger’s Spinney. . . . Wednesday evening, 5 o'clock.’’ 

The spinney in question was in Marley grounds. Michael 
had often shot the covert. 

"It is quite near to the old wing where they are meet¬ 
ing," she remarked meaningly. 

" But why should they want to have a nocturnal meeting 


MERELY MICHAEL 


151 


at all, when they are at liberty to do all the plotting they 
please in comfort, by the fire ? " 

"Don’t you see ? ’’ 

Michael did not. 

"Well, let me finish explaining," she continued, breath¬ 
lessly. "Strange lights have been seen about the old 
wing, you know, and in the shrubbery." 

Yes, Michael knew, he had read it in the papers. " Only 
some of Kelly's phantasies," he said. 

"No. The village people have seen it too, and they have 
been talking. Mrs. Stubbs, the constable's wife, was tell¬ 
ing me about it only the other day. Her husband had 
seen it with his own eyes. Now ! . . . And here is the 
other scrap of paper I haven't shown you yet." 

This time she read it aloud to him : 

" ‘—enough to catch the 6— '. And that," she said, 
with triumph, "that means—in time to catch the 6.40 
train to London, as that is the only train from Marley 
between six and seven. Now do you see how it all 
coincides ? " 

Michael still did not see. 

"Why, of course, because Mongini is meeting this di 
Conti man (whom Mr. Kelly tells us is known to have come 
to England) at 5 p.m. near the haunted wing, and then they 
are travelling up to London by the 6.40 train." 

"Yes, but what for ? And why do they meet in Han¬ 
ger’s Spinney of all places ? There is no one to murder 
there. ... I don't understand." 

"It is quite easy," she said, knitting her brows together. 
Then suddenly her face lit up. "Why, you see, they are 
going to break into the house." 

He was beginning to wonder himself if there could be 
any organised pilfering going on. The house had been 
pretty well dismantled, and portable articles of value 
stored in the nearest repository. But the old panelling 


152 


MERELY MICHAEL 


remained, and the famous Marley carving. Taken col¬ 
lectively the matter began to assume a sufficient import¬ 
ance in his estimate of it to call for some inquiry, and he 
made a note of it for future action. 

She looked at him, and said with a wise little smile : 

“ I have worked it all out. You have only got to come 
with me and do just what you’re told.” 

He laughed. 

“All right, Sherlock. I’m quite ready to play Watson 
to your Holmes. Only it is necessary—sometimes—to get 
down to details.” 

“You leave all that to me,” she begged, “and don't let 
us waste any more time.” 

Then she told him the rest of it. And of all the pro¬ 
posals she had yet made, this was certainly the maddest, 
he thought. For what she was suggesting was that he, 
Michael, should join her in the tracking of Mongini and 
Co.—a pursuit that might conceivably take them to town, 
and last well through the night, apart altogether from any 
element of personal risk which she might be incurring. 

What explanation, he asked, was she to give to her father 
for such an absence ? And yet she was most insistent 
upon this very point: that she who had been the one to 
find the clue should have the right to join in the follow-up. 

He protested, and she said, with a trace of pity in her 
voice : 

“ Poor old Mickey, you may as well give in at once. It 
saves so much time.” 

He refused—he would go alone. 

“But indeed, I will not let you. I will put it all right 
with Dad, never fear. Just leave me to manage him.” 

He had no doubt of her ability to manage the vicar, 
or any other member of the sterner sex. But that was 
hardly the point. 

“Please, Mickey. Oh, please say ‘Yes.’” 


MERELY MICHAEL 


153 


You can see how he was torn in two directions. De¬ 
fiance he could deal with, but he felt so helpless in her 
hands when she started her cozening. 

He walked on for a bit, and in silence. 

“You are so reckless/’ he said at last. “More so than a 
man. I daresay a woman is, in these things. A man stops 
to think-” 

But she broke in with a laugh : 

“Do you think I can't look after myself—a girl who has 
driven a motor in France, and all sorts of things ? ” 

He was thinking hard, and his face clouded over. 

“ I don’t say it is not worth looking into. Anything is, 
when we are so much at sea.” 

“Then what are you making all the fuss about ? ’’ 

“You,” he retorted, slowly beginning to smile. 

“Me ! How ? I’m not a bit frightened, if that’s what 
you mean.’’ The calmness with which her eyes met his, 
the poise of her little head, thrown proudly back, were 
evidence enough that no physical menace, at anyrate, would 
daunt her. 

“Suppose we miss the last train back ? ’’ 

“Suppose we do ?—then I can sleep the night with my 
aunt in London. I have already written, telling her to 
expect me.’’ 

“But your father? ’’ 

“I have said I could manage him. But if you want to 
know, I shall leave a note to be delivered to him in case 
I don't return. He knows me, and he understands.” 

“Well-” he hesitated. 

“You consent ? ” she broke in, flushed and radiant with 
victory. “I knew you would, all the time. Now we must 
hurry home. I promised Dad to bring you back for lunch. 

Michael thought of the impetuosity which had brought 
him from town so early ; but it was impossible to be cross 
with her in her childish eagerness. 




CHAPTER XXI 

Marley House is surrounded with a high wall. The 
edge of Hanger’s Spinney runs out to meet it at a point 
some little distance from the main road, and it is here that 
a low postern door in the wall—well screened from observa¬ 
tion—gives private access into the park. There is, more¬ 
over, a footpath traversing the spinney and leading 
direct to Marley Pryors. Michael suggested they should 
wait in an adjoiningthicketsituatedonaknoll, with a good 
command of this path as well as of the postern door, and 
Esm6e agreed to this without demur ; having gained her 
point, she was content to surrender the leadership into 
Michael’s hands. 

It was growing dusk as they left the vicarage, but before 
they entered the wood a waning moon was shining fitfully 
through the haze that was drifting overhead. They had 
leisure enough to reach their objective before the appointed 
time ; still, they threaded their way very carefully among 
the trees, and in silence, Michael leading the way along 
the grass-grown path, and Esm6e stepping noiselessly be¬ 
hind him. The night was very still and breathless, not 
a leaf stirred in the undergrowth. 

Suddenly she tugged at his arm, making him crouch be¬ 
hind a bush—and just in time too. For, from the further 
side of the footpath, there was a rustling which sounded 
quite close in the silent, frosty air, and then a dark shape 
moved into view about fifty yards away. A moment, and 
it was gone. 


154 


MERELY MICHAEL 


155 


She gripped his arm, whispering: 

"Don’t move. We can see the door in the wall quite 
well from here." 

How quick and resolute she was, he thought; and the 
hand on his arm was as steady as a rock. 

It had grown colder, and the air, which was very still, 
seemed to have thickened. Sure sign that there was fog 
about. The great clock in the market-place of Marley 
Pryors could be heard striking five ; its tones were muffled 
by the distance, but were still quite audible. 

A silence followed, but the heavy shadows of the trees 
hinted at concealment. 

Then two shadowy forms appeared, only the dim out¬ 
line of them visible. One of them must have fit a cigarette, 
for a glowing spark moved through the darkness, like a 
firefly, only more direct and level in its flight. But light 
and figures vanished with startling suddenness, and the 
darkness was as it had been before. 

The moon had begun to rise above the trees ; now and 
then it gleamed redly through the thickening haze. The 
impassive stillness of the trees remained. 

A sudden movement in the bushes ; a soft tapping sound 
followed by a click ; and then the outline of a figure loomed 
again out of the gloom, but nearer than before. A low 
murmur of voices arose, though the watchers were unable 
to catch a word of it. Suddenly another figure rose up 
and joined the first. 

Esm6e slipped her hand into Michael's ; it was cold as ice, 
but it never trembled. He had been sceptical enough at 
the outset, but the girl's suppressed excitement and the 
expectancy of the moment, both had communicated them¬ 
selves to him. This thought was passing from the girl's 
mind to his : which of the two figures, separated from them 
by so narrow a belt of darkness, was the murderer ? 
Michael could not fathom what their present intentions might 


156 


MERELY MICHAEL 


be, nor did he stop to try. He thought only of that one 
thing—to pierce the darkness and learn the truth at last; 
and then to get his grip on the man whose hand had struck 
down old Jimmy. 

The figures were moving through the trees now, making 
their way towards the wall which cast so deep a shadow. 
They were wading knee-deep in the undergrowth, and 
their faces were in shadow ; nothing discernible save these 
two dark outlines. The carpet of dead leaves dulled the 
sound of their footsteps. 

They were further off now and nearing the door. Sud¬ 
denly a sharp click broke the stillness. A small bright 
point of light stabbed through the opened door ; and from 
behind it a pale, peering face was sensed rather than seen. 
A moment—and all was dark as before. 

It was only a glimpse he had caught of the face at the 
door, but the lightning impression left with him was that of 
Peters, though he could not have sworn to this in a court 
of law. It was the possibility of Peters' presence there that 
removed from his mind the more extravagant hopes that 
had entered it a moment before ; it brought him back to 
his original surmise of an organised pilfering from the 
house. There was that panelling coveted by the Ameri¬ 
can, and there was the priceless old Marley carving. This, 
or something like it, must be the explanation, he con¬ 
cluded. Still, who could say ? The two might be inex¬ 
tricably interwoven. 

But not so Esm£e. Her fingers dug into his hand, and 
there was a catch in her breath as she whispered so low that 
he could hardly catch the words : 

“Now you see who's right ? There are three of them 
lying in wait for you. ... Oh ! Mickey, laying the plot 
now to kill you 1 “ 

His smile was lost in the darkness. 


MERELY MICHAEL 


157 


“ Sssh ! ’’ he whispered back, for her voice had risen at 
the end. “ Keep very quiet and listen.’’ 

A moment passed, perhaps two ; then the door in the 
wall closed softly. 

“ Have you got the key ? " 

“ No," he said. “ But you wait here while I make sure 
that they have all entered the park." 

He was edging away to reconnoitre when he heard her 
following behind him. 

"I’m coming with you. Quick, or we’ll lose them alto¬ 
gether." Then swiftly, and grasping at his hand, she 
hurried him along in spite of the darkness, or the thorns 
that straggled through the thicket. 

“We have got to chance them hearing us. But they 
won’t. They must be well on the other side of the wall by 
now. . . . Oh, hurry." She breathed quickly from ex¬ 
citement. 

Next moment they had reached the wall. The door 
was locked, as Michael had expected it to be. It was a 
high wall with an absolutely smooth surface; the problem 
was how to scale it. Michael hesitated. 

“Oh, don’t stop to argue." And anticipating the 
thought that was in his mind, she added : “ Of course I 

am coming with you. Now how are you going to get me 
over the wall. I am not so tall as you." His figure 
looked very bulky to her in the dimness. 

The moon, shining through a thinner veil of mist, was 
turning the darkness into a sort of ghostly radiance. Her 
eyes swept up to meet his, wide and fearless. He noted 
the resolution there, and hesitated no longer. 

“ All right. But there is danger in it." 

“ Of course." 

“ Then will you do as I tell you ? " 

And she nodded. 

He knelt down at her feet. 


158 


MERELY MICHAEL 


“Now get on to my shoulder/’ he commanded. 

“ Yes/’ she said a little breathlessly, and stood reluc¬ 
tant. 

“ Quick ’’—and she obeyed. “ Now hold my right hand, 
and steady yourself with your left hand on my neck. 
Are you ready ? ’’ he queried, when she had settled herself 
on his right shoulder as directed. 

“ Yes,’’ she breathed. Her soft arm was round his 
neck. 

Then raising himself to his full height, he stood while 
she scrambled from him to the top of the wall and perched 
herself there, where his great strong arms held her for a 
moment. 

“ The ground is soft on the other side. Can you ‘ drop * 
it ? ’’ he asked, steadying his voice. 

She whispered an affirmative. 

“ Then over you go before they can see you.” 

A film of fog was rolling up again to meet the moon. 
The world grew very dark. There was the sound of a 
soft thud on the other side of the wall, then a small voice 
murmured: 

“All right.” 

Michael made a jump for the top. The coping was 
round and smooth, his hand slipped on it and he fell 
back. Again he essayed it, and this time he got his hands 
well across the top; then with a thrust upwards, which 
bruised his knees badly, he established a firm hold and 
pulled himself up. The next moment he was standing with 
her on the other side, and she was asking in her dear 
sympathetic way if he was hurt. And her voice was 
softer than anything he had ever heard. 

Again the fog dispersed. For an instant the moon shone 
out clear, and they beheld the old wing of Marley frowning 
at them with all its nameless evil through skeleton trees, 
their boughs stripped of leaves in the last gale. As they 


MERELY MICHAEL 


159 


looked, a dark figure appeared and vanished again within 
the gloom of the great old yew hedge which flanked the 
shrubbery. 

" Now we will have to run for it. This way-" 

Catching her hand, he set off through a belt of trees 
which fringed the wall. The going was not easy, and the 
moon played hide-and-seek with the fog. Once she stum¬ 
bled and must have fallen, had it not been for his arm. 

On they went at a run, and for a considerable way. 

" Tired ? " he asked over his shoulder. 

"Not a bit,"she panted, but he knew that she ached 
with fatigue. 

There was no one to be seen now, and presently the mist 
settled down again, clinging to the trees in wreaths of a 
ghostly grey. Michael pulled up sharply as they entered 
the shrubbery, where they stood for a moment in pitch 
darkness, not seeing each other’s face, and in a great still¬ 
ness. 

Esm^e’s heart was beating furiously, but there was a 
light in her eyes as she waited for the next move in the 
game, which she now left to the man beside her to make. 
Then she heard his voice whispering in the silence : 

"Follow me." 

Nearing the ancient family vault, he turned round and 
murmured very softly; "Take care." And she felt his 
hand guiding her round a grass-grown slab of stone which 
marked the resting-place of some long-forgotten favourite 
of the Marie ys. 

On they moved, noiselessly through the darkness, until 
they had come to the old vault itself. Working cautiously 
round it, Michael came to a halt under a giant yew at 
the corner, in close proximity to which a broad drive led 
to the eastern lodge of Mar ley which had its exit on the 
station road ; a position, too, which commanded a view of 
the conservatory entrance. And there they waited. 



160 


MERELY MICHAEL 


I think it was about this time that Michael first awoke to 
the fact that the girl was occupying a good deal more of his 
thoughts than he had cared to admit even to himself. Time 
stood still while memories of the night rose up before him. 
Then his thoughts travelled further into the past with all 
the sweet companionship of her ; the wilful charm, and 
the indescribable wonder. As his mind passed on to the 
future, the stern, unyielding look returned to his face. 
But he had a confidence in his own strength which never 
left him for long and which helped him now in his belief 
that the situation would remain within his grasp. He was 
very young, after all, and his knowledge of a woman less 
than most men’s. 

A murmur of voices had arisen. Footsteps were ap¬ 
proaching. Michael drew the girl further within the shelter 
of the yew ; then crouched by the edge of it, and in front 
of her, drawing his pistol at the same time and fingering 
it in readiness. 

Closer drew the footsteps, and yet closer. A twig 
snapped close beside Michael. Next instant he was con¬ 
scious of one dim shape, followed by another, and looming 
up within a few yards of him. His face grew grim and hard. 
He crouched, ready to spring. Another moment, and he 
would have launched himself upon the nearest figure. 

Then a sudden hesitation seized upon him—that which 
he had never known of before when the time for action 
had come. It paralysed his power to move. Dimly, it 
was a fear for the safety of the precious person he held 
in his keeping ; that was the first thought which arrested 
him on the brink of action. Almost simultaneously his 
mind was detaching itself in another direction altogether, 
and he was debating with himself whether it would not 
be more effective to follow and see what the uninterrupted 
end of this adventure might be. There was the certitude, 
too, that one or more of the party must escape while he 


MERELY MICHAEL 


161 


secured the first one, unless he were prepared to shoot— 
and that was an obvious impossibility. 

While these thoughts were surging through his brain, 
he waited, motionless, as one in a dream. Swiftly the three 
filed past, and he failed to catch a glimpse by which he 
might identify any of them, whose faces were enshadowed 
by the trees. Instantly the darkness closed in behind 
them ; the sound of their footsteps grew less. 

The girl had stolen up behind him. She caught his arm. 

“ What is the matter ? Why did you let them go ? ” 
she asked, giving his arm a shake. 

“ Better to follow them,” he answered, rising to his feet. 

“What is it? Are you a coward, Michael? Look at 
me ! . . . Ah, I see, it was because of me. Because—I 
am a woman.” Tears of anger welled into her eyes. “ Oh 
I hate you I ” she exclaimed. “You have let them go ! 
Risked Dick’s safety, perhaps, just because—I am a 
woman.” 

With his eyes on the ground, he repeated dully: “No, 
it is not that. We can do better by following them. After 
all, Esm£e ”—and it was the first time he had called her 
that quite of his own accord—“they have done nothing 
to incriminate themselves, to our knowledge. It might 
have spoiled everything had I acted now. Come along, 
we must hurry after them.” 

But she almost sobbed : “It is of no use now. I wish 
I had come alone. I could have held them up myself, 
instead of relying on any man. And I did trust you—up 
till now.” 

She was following close behind him as she spoke, and 
for a long time after that she did not open her lips. Poor 
little woman, her heart was very full. He too kept 
silence. 

Though they had vanished, yet there could be little 
doubt whither the precious trio were heading. Michael, 

L 


162 


MERELY MICHAEL 


with Esmee a little behind, travelled swiftly along the drive 
through the mist. 

Second thoughts were confirming him in his opinion 
that more would be accomplished by thus following than by 
effecting an immediate arrest, and possibly for no specific 
offence. But what was weighing on his mind was Esmee's 
sudden hatred of him, which he had taken mighty 
seriously, and in the strictest letter of the word. That; 
and then, too, it was adding to his anxiety to know that 
he had not yet succeeded in definitely distinguishing any 
of the three men. 

Presumably Mongini was one of them, if the evidence 
of the letter which Esmee had pieced together could be 
regarded as a proof of it. Then he thought he had recog¬ 
nised the face of Peters at the door, though the glimpse 
obtained was so instantaneous and uncertain that he 
could not have sworn to it on oath. But it was the third 
man whose identity puzzled him, and the one whom he 
felt to be the most important of all. 

And all the while they hurried on, Michael trying to 
pierce the darkness for a trace of those in front. To get 
to the lodge gate before them, by a short cut he knew of 
was the one chance now left to him. And then if there 
was no light as they passed through—then he might have 
to act. But would they be in time ? 

They had now traversed the greater part of the park, 
and were approaching the eastern lodge. 

“This way,” he whispered. “And better take my 
hand again. It is rough going.’' 

After a slight hesitation, she caught hold of his hand, and 
they struck off on a side track which turned sharply 
through the trees of the park. 

Reaching the wall again, they skirted along it for some 
little way. But the darkness was greater than ever here, 
and it was as much as Michael could do to steer a way 


MERELY MICHAEL 


163 


through it by groping with his free hand against the 
stone surface. Esmee dropped his hand without a word 
and took hold of his coat instead, giving him a greater 
freedom. Once, when he stumbled and fell, he nearly 
brought her down on top of him. But she had herself 
wonderfully in hand, for not a sound escaped her. 

At last there rose above them the loom of something 
blacker than the darkness, which brought them to a 
standstill, breathing hard from the pace at which they 
had come. They had reached the lodge gates, but there 
was not a sign nor a sound of those of whom they were 
in pursuit. They had travelled quickly ; part of the way 
th'^y had run, cutting off a wide bend in the avenue by 
the side track. Were they too late ? Or was there a 
mistake in his surmise as to their objective ? 

He paused to take breath, and listened. There was the 
girl’s laboured breathing close behind him ; save for this, 
there was no sound to break the unnatural stillness. 

She had loosened her hold of him as soon as they halted. 
And now he crept forward without a word, edging his 
way slowly and with infinite caution, until he had reached 
the gate pillar. He felt the ironwork, working along it 
with his hands. The gate was ajar; at that his heart 
turned to stone. Then they were too late, after all, it 
seemed! How bitterly he regretted his letting them 
pass ! . . . 

But no, for a sound had caught his ear of which there 
could be no mistaking'—it was the jingle of a horse’s bit. 
Then, as he peered further forward in the direction of the 
sound, he became aware of the blurred outline of a trap 
without lights. ‘ Thank God! ’ he murmured as he 
turned and stole back to her. 

“All right. We are in time,’’ he whispered. 

How long they waited he could not say. Suddenly a 
sound broke the silence. 'They’ were coming. 


164 


MERELY MICHAEL 


A spectral shape appeared, followed by a second, then 
a third. The muttering of voices was audible. A glimmer 
of light shot up in the darkness ; flashed full on a man's 
face—a face which Michael had never seen before, but 
he saw it very distinctly now. There was a livid scar 
above the right eyebrow, the picture of which was in¬ 
delibly stamped on Michael's memory. The man wore a 
scarf round his throat, was poorly clad, and carried a 
parcel under each arm. 

This much Michael was able to see, when the light was 
extinguished as suddenly as it had appeared, and nothing 
more was left but the three dim forms which merged 
separately into the mist. He waited, but nothing further 
happened; then he heard the sound of wheels, and knew 
that the cart had driven off. From the direction of its 
going, he concluded that it must be making for the station. 

No time to be lost if they were to catch the train. So 
he said in a low voice : “Now for the station. And as 
fast as we can go." 

He explained the position to her. There was no danger 
to her on the main road ; he begged of her to return 
and let him go on alone. But she did not answer at 
once. 

Then she put out a hand to him ; in the way she did it 
she was amazingly like a little girl who has got into mis¬ 
chief and come to ask forgiveness. She simply said: 

“Michael, I’m sorry. I have been a little beast, and 
what is worse—a fool. But don’t—don’t try to get rid 
of me on that account. ... I simply could not bear 
it." 

“You’re a brave little soul, that's what you are." 

“And you," she murmured, and her voice was soft as 
a caress, “you’ve been an absolute dear about it." 

So she was generous too with the generosity that admits 
a fault—the greatest generosity of all in a woman. 


MERELY MICHAEL 


165 


“ And you will promise not to hold back when the 
time does come—just because I am a woman ? You will 
think of me just as if I were another man ? You will, 
Michael ? " 

And Michael promised. 


CHAPTER XXII 


The train whistled through a cutting when they were 
yet a quarter of a mile from the station. It was only by 
running hard that they arrived in time to fling themselves 
into the last carriage, followed by an irate guard who 
banged the door to after them as the train steamed out of 
of the station. 

The fog was collecting rapidly as they neared London 
It was going to be no easy matter to follow their man, 
Michael reflected, as the train slowed down, then proceeded 
at a snail’s pace with the fog-signals detonating as they 
advanced. They discussed the situation, he weighing 
the pros and cons in his grave judicial manner and she 
alternating between hope and despair. 

At length the train pulled up at a station where tickets 
were collected. Michael jumped out immediately and 
made his way along the platform, peering into each com¬ 
partment as he passed. 

There was a lady seated in the corner of a first-class 
compartment who was at some pains to display her re¬ 
sentment at his scrutiny, drawing herself up stiffly, and 
bridling, as it is commonly termed. Yet she was of 
uncertain age, and singularly devoid of looks. 

Then, at last, fortune smiled. From a carriage a little 

way in front the very man he was looking for jumped 

out and began stamping about on the platform to warm 

himself. There was no mistaking him. He wore an 

old-fashioned ulster and gaiters, a brown bowler hat the 

166 


MERELY MICHAEL 


167 


worse for wear, and the muffler noted before. Michael 
was at a loss to place the man or his vocation in life. 
There was a curious admixture of town and of country 
about him, as of one standing with a leg in either. Of the 
other two there was not a trace. 

The tickets had all been collected. The guard was 
walking along, swinging the lantern in his hand. Doors 
were slamming. 

"Train just going, sir,” the guard growled as he passed ; 
and Michael slowly retraced his steps, keeping at the same 
time a close watch on the man in the muffler until he saw 
him enter his carriage. Then the whistle blew, and they 
were off again. 

The difficulty, thought Michael, would be to keep their 
man in view once the great terminus was reached, and he 
gazed apprehensively out of the window. He recollected 
the large parcels, and concluded there would be some 
sort of a conveyance waiting at the other end. 

“They must have been pilfering something from Marley 
house,” the girl said, thereby echoing his unspoken thought. 

“But never mind about that. We will mark him 
down, and set Mr. Kelly on to watch him.” 

Then as Michael debated with himself on the chances 
of obtaining a taxi in time, she again answered without 
his having expressed himself aloud. 

“All right, Mickey. Mr. Mobbs is an old friend of mine. 
I wired early this morning and asked him to have a taxi 
waiting for us at the station. He is the head porter, 
you know, is my Mr. Mobbs.” 

“How did you guess——? ” 

“Oh, never mind. I just did.” She looked up with 
her bright eager eyes ; expectant, too. 

“Well done ! It was clever of you.” 

She flushed delightfully at the praise she had been 
looking for, but more at the warmth of it. She barely 



168 MERELY MICHAEL 

concealed her gratification under a grown-up smile, and 
said: 

“ Oh, it was nothing ! " 

The train, which had been creeping more slowly than ever, 
and with repeated stops, now came to its final rest. And 
sure enough, there was Mr. Mobbs waiting on the plat¬ 
form, his broad face opening out into a grin as he caught 
sight of Miss Favoril. 

“Evenin', miss," he said, touching his cap with more 
than a pre-war courtesy and plainly pleased to see the 
little lady. “Got your telegram. This way, miss." 

“How very nice of you!" she exclaimed, thanking 
him with her eyes in the way that would send a man 
gladly to his death to serve her. “You know, Mobbs, it 
is dreadfully important. The fact is, we—are following 
someone." 

“ Indeed , miss ! " 

“Yes, Mobbs—a matter of life and death. But I can't 
stop to talk to you now. Some other time ..." 

“Very good, miss. And I would just like to say as 
how Mobbs is very willing to serve you, any time at all, 
miss." 

“And how is Mrs. Mobbs and the little girl? " Her 
kindly way of asking had about it the merit of sincerity. 

These were the scraps of conversation which reached 
Michael as he followed in herwake, keeping a sharplook-out 
on the man in the muffler who was making his way in a 
line parallel to their own and a little in front. 

“This is the taxi, miss," said Mobbs, coming to a halt 
and opening the cab door with a flourish. 

There was an arc lamp just overhead, spreading its 
ghostly flare into the fog. The taxi man touched his cap 
as the girl approached. But when she smiled at him and 
nodded, he cast aside the rug within which he had coiled 
himself, and jumped from his seat to assist her. What 


MERELY MICHAEL 


169 


an invaluable travelling companion she was, thought 
Michael; hers was the magic that opened doors—of the 
human heart, as of taxi-cabs. It was some power of 
magnetism she had. 

Mobbs presented the man thus : “Jem Crabbie, a pal 
o’ mine. He’ll see you through. . . . Mind you, Jem, 
it’s wery important. You’ll do just as this lady orders 
you. Thank you, sir,” he murmured, accepting with 
obvious reluctance the sovereign which Michael had 
slipped into his hand. 

Crabbie nodded. “Where to, miss? ’’ he asked, ad¬ 
dressing himself to Miss Favoril, who was now seated in 
the taxi. 

The man in the muffler was standing not far off, lifting 
the last of his parcels into a van which was drawn up 
alongside the kerb. Michael touched the chauffeur’s arm. 

“ There, you see that van into which the man isstepping ? 
Well, we want you to keep close behind without letting 
him suspect we are following him. On no account lose 
sight of him.” 

As the man was now whipping up his horse, Michael 
jumped into the taxi and closed the door. Off they set 
into the fog, the last thing Michael was conscious of being 
the open-mouthed amazement on Mobbs’ honest face. 

Fog filled the city, the lamps looking pale wraiths 
of themselves. The taxi threaded its way through 
mysterious streets pervaded by that curious sense of 
solitude and unreality which a fog always brings. Michael 
peered out of the windows, trying to distinguish their line 
of direction ; but soon he gave it up, as completely in a 
haze as the night itself, though the taxi was moving very 
slowly indeed. 

Now there is nothing which exhilarates Miss Esm£e so 
much as a soup<;on of risk ; and there is little doubt but 
that she regarded the present adventure as bounded by 


170 


MERELY MICHAEL 


something far more substantial than that—by positive 
danger, in fact. 

“What fun ! ” she said ; and “Oh ! isn't it nice ! ” 
with a little ripple of excitement in her voice, and 
snuggling her warm coat more closely about her. 

“Yes," said Michael, with a lack of enthusiasm. 

His heart was in his mouth as the taxi skidded badly 
round a corner, and nearly collided with a bus, throwing 
the girl violently against his shoulder. 

“I don’t believe you are enjoying it a bit, Michael.” 

“I don’t dislike it,” he assured her, steadying himself 
after their recent escape from the bus. 

“What! We’re tracking a murderer through a fog, 
and that is all you feel about it. I wonder if anything 
could ever thrill you—or are you merely one of these 
tiresome people who won’t enthuse ? Besides, that is old- 
fashioned now. My dear Michael, you must get out of it.” 

But here the taxi pulled up with a grinding suddenness. 
Michael leaped out, and in a moment Esmee was by his 
side. 

“Where?” he queried with a business-like brevity. 

“In there, sir,” and Crabbie pointed to a gaping black¬ 
ness in the wall. “The man went in there'.” 

“But where is the van ? ” 

“It drove on.” 

Michael looked about him to fix, if possible, his bearings 
in the fog. They were standing in a very narrow street 
that was little better than a lane, and a very grimy one 
at that. There was a corner lamp some two hundred 
yards off, in the direction from which they had come 
with darkness intervening; and there was this blank 
wall with a gap in it. That was all—not the vestige of 
another light to define the shape of the building. 

What was to be done ? They had butted up against a 
brick wall in more senses than one ; and when he thought 


MERELY MICHAEL 


171 


of Esmee—despite his promise to her—he had to confess 
to himself that he did not like the look of things at all. 

“Do you know where we are ? ” he inquired of Crabbie. 

“Well, I couldn't rightly say if this 'ere lane has got a 
nime or not, sir. But it turns off Leather Street, which 
runs into Rupert Street some little ways back." 

“ Oh, hurry ! We’ll lose him altogether if you two men 
stand here talking like—like a Greek chorus ”—an expres¬ 
sion no doubt borrowed from the vicar. 

But Michael's face was set in its sternest mould as he 
turned to the girl and said a little curtly: 

“We have run the fellow to earth, but I don't think we 
will discover much more to-night.’’ 

Her eyes narrowed on him as he spoke. “And you 
mean to leave it at that ? ’’ she asked. 

“No, I mean to see Kelly and to go thoroughly into the 
matter with him by daylight.” 

“ But now ? What are you going to do now ? ” 

“I am going to see where that passage leads to, that's 
all.” 

“Better leave it alone, sir,” advised Crabbie. “Them 
back lanes in Little Italy are none too healthy on a night 
like this.” 

* Italy ! ' It was a rallying cry to Esmee—though I 
doubt very much if she needed one. 

“We must go on ! ” she cried. 

Michael turned round on her. He said, speaking very 
quietly: “You will wait here with Crabbie.” 

“No.” 

He looked immensely tall in the fog as he stood over 
her. I don't know how it was, but he forgot the sway she 
held over him—forgot, in fact, that she was a woman. He 
laid a hand on each shoulder of her, and none too lightly. 

“Listen to me,” he said, giving her a shake. “You 
shall remain here.” And he stared into her eyes. It 


172 


MERELY MICHAEL 


was Michael in command of his battalion, issuing his short, 
crisp commands ; not with haste, yet with the quick 
directness of the man who is self-reliant in action. 

She did not speak for a minute. All at once her proud 
little head drooped; then she faltered in a low voice : 

“Very well. But don’t you go, Mickey. Please wait 
till the morning.” 

He was moving away, and did not answer. She made 
as though to follow him, then stopped as if some force 
outside herself was holding her back. 

“You will be careful. . . . Oh, Mickey,” she breathed, 
“you will. ...” 

“Of course. And he entered the passage, carefully 
feeling his way along it. 

The passage was very narrow; he brushed both sides 
of it with his arms. His footsteps sounded muffled, yet 
echoed strangely as he was swallowed up in a swirl of fog. 
The world of reality receded far from him. 

He had carried the torchlight with him, but did not 
choose to use it, groping his way in the darkness until he 
should have come to the end of the passage. It came 
with a startling suddenness, the stick which he held in 
front of him as a sort of feeler recoiling upon him as the 
point of it struck on a hollow-sounding surface which he 
found to be a door. 

In darkness, as before, he fumbled with the handle; 
turned it very slowly, very silently, and pressed. But 
there was not a sign of yielding. He placed his shoulder 
against it and thrust with all his weight, but it never 
budged an inch. Then he flashed the torchlight swiftly, 
and a feeble little flare it made in the encircling fog, which 
showed him nothing but the door and what was apparently 
the back entrance of a tall building, the windows of which 
were in total darkness. That was all there was to it. 

There was nothing further to be done. He turned to 


MERELY MICHAEL 173 

retrace his steps. Suddenly he stopped to listen, evefy 
nerve in his body intent. But all was silent as the grave. 

“Nothing/’ he announced gravely as he rejoined 
Esmee. "Only a locked door. We can do nothing more 
to-night." 

"I am so glad." She said it with a curious little catch 
in her voice. 

He looked at her, perplexed. What a bewildering piece 
of humanity a woman was 1 And Esm6e, in particular, 
who always kept him guessing : ‘ What next ? * 

"Come along ; we'll have some dinner and talk it over." 

As he spoke he was opening the door of the taxi, into 
which she crept without a word, as quiet as a little mouse. 
He made a careful note of the gap in the wall, fixing it 
with reference to its distance from the only lamp-post in 
the lane. Then he turned to the chauffeur: 

"The fog has thickened infernally—can you manage 
to drive us to the Lotus ? "—mentioning a quiet little 
restaurant in the most respectable part of Soho. 

Crabbie thought he could. 

"Well, go slow and be extra careful, won’t you ? " 

Crabbie smiled, "Yes, sir," and Michael's heart went 
out to him for the assurance of his smile. 

Compared with that of the early part of the evening, 
the fog which now rolled through the city was of a Stygian 
density. How Crabbie found his way through the swirling 
wreaths of it was a mystery to Michael; it seemed to be 
a question of instinct rather than geography. 

Esmee, subdued, sat half-turned from him, in a sort of 
pathetic quietude. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


The taxicab certainly did go slowly. It crawled. Michael 
looked at his watch and said : “No wonder.” 

“What?” she asked listlessly. She had become a 
little tired child for the moment. 

“It is a quarter past nine. No wonder I’m famished.” 

“ You would be,” she flashed back at him, hinting at the 
appetite which Michael calls perfectly normal, and his 
friends term gluttony. But his face softened under cover 
of the darkness; he had accomplished his ends, having 
diverted her attention. 

“Laughing at me once more? ... I’m glad.” 

“Of course. I’m always laughing at you. But why 
are you glad ? ” 

“ Well,” said he, “ I was fearing I had been rather severe 
with you.” 

“ You , Michael ? When ? ” 

“When I ordered you to remain behind with Crabbie.” 

“And you thought you had subdued me ? ” 

“No, but I was thinking of your eyes. There was a 
sort of frightened look in them—at least, I thought so.” 

“Oh, Michael!” she said in an amused little voice. 
“So you think you can read a woman’s eyes, do you? 
Well, you’re learning.” Then with a smile of bewitching 
sweetness, she added: “You are one of the men who 
always get what they want, aren’t you ? ” 

He was conscious of some undercurrent of meaning in 

174 


MERELY MICHAEL 


175 


her words. This time it was not raillery, and it puzzled 
him. He took his time to consider it, then asked : 

“Why ? ” 

‘ ‘ I can ’t say exactly—something rather inevitable about 
you, I suppose . . . when you really want a thing.” 

It was pleasant entering the brilliantly lit Lotus res¬ 
taurant after the cold and the fog outside. The girl had 
cast aside her depression, and was radiant as ever he had 
seen her. There was a pleased little milse lurking about 
the corners of her lips which no man could fathom. As 
they halted at the door of the grill, he said : 

“ I must get Kelly on the ’phone. He lives not far from 
here, and may be able to come round before we finish 
dinner. After that I shall pack you off to your aunt’s.” 

“Don't you worry about that. She is not expecting 
me before eleven. If I am going to be later than that, I 
can telephone. I am going to wait and talk to Mr. Kelly 
too, and you shan’t subdue me this time. Just you try 
it again. . . . Now run along, and ring up Mr. Kelly. 
I’ll get a table for two and order dinner.” 

She whisked round, surveying the crowded room with 
a critical air and sniffing at the rather dense fumes of 
smoke. It was the first time she had been in a Soho 
restaurant, and she was absorbing the entire situation at 
a glance. Michael, who had not progressed far, had 
stopped to see what she would do, an amused look in his 
eyes at the perfect assurance and detachment of her. And 
this is what he saw. 

The head waiter had not appeared at once, so she 
stalked one whom she plainly took to be the manager. 

“Can you please show me to a table for two? ” she 
said, accosting a certain faultlessly-dressed barrister Michael 
knew by sight, with haughtiness and yet with an engaging 
smile. Such an admixture may seem improbable ; but 
not if you knew Miss FavoriL 


176 


MERELY MICHAEL 


The barrister looked startled. He screwed an eyeglass 
into his eye for support and regarded the girl in some 
astonishment. Next moment he was smiling back at 
her ; and the eyeglass, having dropped from its proud place 
was tinkling against a waistcoat button. 

“That,” said he, “is just what I am trying to find 
myself. I will send the waiter to you as soon as I am able 
to find him.” 

He bowed and passed on—a humorist and a gentleman. 

When Michael returned, it was to find her duly installed 
at a table for two. She was leaning back with a satisfied 
air, having just registered her order with the waiter. 
Also she was smoking—why, he could not think, for he 
knew she hated cigarettes. Possibly she thought in 
Bohemia it was up to her to be Bohemian ; but it only 
had the effect of making her small round face look more 
radiantly childish than ever, also it was making her eyes 
water. A slow, tender little smile overspread his face. 

“Esm£e,” he said, occupying the vacant seat opposite 
to her, “ there is no use trying. You will never grow up.’’ 

She puffed hard at her cigarette, striving to look as if 
she enjoyed it. “Don’t be absurd!” she retorted. 
Then, leaning across the table, her eyes sparkling upon 
him, she said: “Oh, isn’t this nice, Mickey? I aw glad 
we ended it up here, and aren’t you glad I brought you ? ” 

Michael recaptured his frown, but only with an effort. 
“That’s all very well,” said he. “But who was that 
strange man you were accosting ? ” 

“I don’t know. Why ? ” 

“I merely ask because just at present I am responsible 
for you-” 

“It was his own fault. He was so nicely dressed I was 
sure he must be the manager.” 

“Well, he wasn’t. He happens to be rather a famous 
barrister.” 



MERELY MICHAEL 


177 

‘‘You watched me? M 

He nodded. 

“Oh, Mickey, you are a beast! Why didn’t you tell 
me ? ” She laughed. 

“Because you were so perfectly sure of yourself, and 
because you gave me no opportunity to interfere. Well, 
what happened when you discovered your mistake ? ’’ 

“Oh, I smiled at him. It was the only thing to do.” 

“And what did he do then ? ’’ 

“Smiled. ... I can’t think what you are laughing at,’’ 
she said, herself breaking into ripples of laughter. 

It was a good dinner. The girl talked gaily of the great 
arrest to be effected on the morrow ; she talked incessantly, 
and he was very happy listening to her. Passing on, she 
had reached the point where Dick was to leave the court 
without a stain upon his character, when Michael noticed 
Kelly threading his way across the crowded room towards 
them. 

Kelly arrived, his rosy face rosier than ever from the 
cold, and his cheeks glistening. He joined them over 
coffee and liqueurs while Michael explained to him all 
that had transpired. He could not tell the name of the 
lane, but described as nearly as possible the point at 
which it took off from Leather Street. 

“Did you notice a grimy little picture-house at the 
corner ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, there was a picture-house,” Michael replied. 

“ Did this particular one have a very narrow appearance, 
and a peaky sort of roof, as though the adjoining buildings 
had squeezed it up, and into the air ? ” 

“Yes, that’s right,” Esmee chimed in brightly. 

Kelly’s round, bird-like eyes lighted up as he noticed 
the girl’s enthusiasm. “Well, that settles it,” said he, 
disposing of a brandy liqueur at one gulp and nodding 
his head approvirgly. “I know the place now. 

M 


• • 


178 


MERELY MICHAEL 


Now tell me, Mr. Frayne : you passed into it from Leather 
Street ? Was it to your left you turned when you entered 
the passage ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“Then the back of the house you butted up against is 
in a block of buildings facing on Bright Street. Not a 
healthy resort on a dark night-” 

“There now, what did I tell you, Michael? ” And 
Esmee shook her head at him sagely. 

“And the young lady with you, too ! ” 

But ‘ the young lady ' kept quite silent about that. 

“There has been many a happening in that quarter, 
though of course it is nothing like so bad as it was in the 
old days when first I knew Soho. . . . About how far up 
the lane would you say the passage is ? One hundred 
yards, or two ? ” 

“Nearer two hundred than one hundred, I should say.” 

Michael saw there was a definite purpose in each of 
Kelly’s questions, and for some unaccountable reason an 
uneasy feeling fastened on him, as though they were 
approaching some inevitable anti-climax as a result of 
all their searching. He glanced across at Esmee ; the 
same thought seemed to be transmitting itself to her, 
for he noted that the light had gone out of her face. 

Kelly removed the ash from his cigar with excessive 
care, then he said: “Well, I haven’t had occasion to 
visit Bright Street for donkeys’ years ; but I’ll renew my 
acquaintance with it in the morning. By the way, can 
you tell me at all what the man in the muffler looked 
like ? ” 

This Michael did to the best of his ability, dwelling on the 
details of his dress. “A curious assortment of town and 
country, it seemed to me,” he concluded. 

“Yes,” said Kelly eagerly, “yes. And tell me now, 
was there no distinguishing mark on his face ? ” 



MERELY MICHAEL 


179 


"There was." 

"A scar above the right eye ? " 

"Yes." 

"That settles, it, then. It is Muldoon you've been 
following—just as I was after thinking myself the whole 
time." 

There was no getting away from the finality of Kelly’s 
utterance. 

"A countryman of yours, Kelly. There is not much of 
Italy in the name." 

Kelly chuckled. *‘ Just that, and a pretty big blackguard 
in a small way, too. He is known as the poachers’ friend. 
Collector and carrier combined, and the picker-up of any 
odd trifles that don’t belong to him. Nothing big about 
Muldoon. He lives in the Italian quarter, and is as cunning 
as the old ’un himself. There isn't the * beak ' born who 
is able to convict him." 

So her Italian-looking man was Irish after all! A 
poacher, not a murderer. Michael looked swiftly at 
Esmee, then away. Her face had paled, but she was 
struggling gamely with a smile, while the structure she 
had toiled to build was tumbling like a pack of cards about 
her feet. 

Kelly, too, knew where the trouble lay ; there was a 
lot of unobtrusive sympathy in his face as he broke in, 
speaking softly : 

"Never you be minding, miss. After all there may be 
more in this than meets the eye. And it is the uncon¬ 
sidered trifle—the straw blown along by the wind of 
chance—which, often as not, leads to detection of a crime. 
That’s so, isn’t it, Mr. Frayne ? " 

And Michael agreed, cheerfully as he could. Little did 
he think then of the issues that were to hang on this very 
thing. 

"I’ll be looking round in the morning, and then we'll 


180 


MERELY MICHAEL 


see what can be done. Meantime we’ll never say die. 
But I must be off now.” 

Michael eyed him through the haze of smoke. “Fix a 
time and I’ll be there,” he said. 

Esm6e’s mouth grew mutinous. “We’ll be there,” 
she amended with the dignity of a dowager. 

Kelly grinned and shook his head. “Kelly will be 
there, and no other. Else I’ll never be finding out what’s 
what. There will be those in Bright Street who may be 
opening out to Kelly a bit; they’d be closing up tight as 
an oyster if there was anyone else with him. Sure thing,” 
he affirmed. “Good-night, and keep smiling—that’s the 
motto.” So smiling cheerily to them, he turned and left. 

Esmee’s face was like a child’s who has broken her first 
doll. “Oh, Mickey,” she faltered, “it is too dreadful. 
To think—after all our hopes—that it should end like 
this ! ” 

He did what he could to comfort her, but she seemed 
to be paying little heed to his words She wanted to cry, 
but her sense of humour would not let her. All at once 
she brightened up, taking it upon herself to encourage a 
comrade rather than to show her own despair. 

“Never mind, we’ll see it through yet,” she said. 

She was a wonderfully helpful sort of person, smiling 
through her own disappointment, and despite fatigue. 
But as she smiled, she turned away so that he should not 
see the quivering of her mouth. 

Yet somehow Michael understood. There had been 
small room for sentiment of any sort in his life hitherto ; 
but he was a man naturally possessed of a quick sympathy, 
and his companionship with Esmee was bringing out all 
the human understanding that was in him. 

Her service in France had taught her to laugh and to 
endure—and she was yet a child. A heritage of age before 
youth had gone ; he too knew what that meant. It was 


MERELY MICHAEL 


181 


thus she endeared herself to him ; and what an exquisite 
comradeship it fostered ! And then—then he thought of 
Dick, and a chill crept into his heart. 

He was very thoughtful of her, and tender, in his quiet 
way ; unobtrusive sympathy and the small attentions 
that do not escape a woman’s notice. But he had grown 
graver, too, with a restraint in his manner he strove to 
conceal. 

The fog was as thick as ever; it invaded the taxi, 
hiding the mist of tenderness that had come into her eyes 
as she turned towards him. 

“ You need not tell me you are not frowning,’’she said ; 
“I can feel it. . . . Don't, Michael! For I know we’ll 
win through yet—you and I.” 

As he left her at her aunt’s door she held his hand for 
a moment, giving it a tiny squeeze. 

“ You are a dear ! ” a small voice whispered. 

And she was gone. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


At about three o’clock the following afternoon Kelly 
telephoned. It was a Saturday, and Michael had returned 
to his chambers. 

“Busy ? ” 

“No,” replied Michael. “Who is speaking, please? ” 

“Coming along then—it’s Kelly.” 

Kelly was laconic over the telephone, if ever a man was. 
When Michael asked what was the news, there was no 
answer, and he was obliged to await Kelly’s arrival before 
learning more. As he waited he was thinking of Esmee 
and her disappointment of the night before, desperately 
hoping that there might yet be something of comfort to 
communicate to her as a result of Kelly’s investigation. 

Presently the little man came bustling in; settled 
himself in a chair by the fire ; filled his pipe, and lit it. 
Then in answer to Michael’s question if he had discovered 
anything of importance from his inquiries of the morning : 

“I have—and I haven’t,” he answered. “You re¬ 
member we had tracked the di Conti representative to 
London, where the trail petered out ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, I heard of her this morning. Saw her, in fact— 
in Bright Street.” 

Michael exclaimed : “Her ! ” 

“Yes. A girl barely out of her ’teens, and as sweet an 
expression as ever a madonna wore in a picture.” 

He puffed at his pipe, casting a sidelong glance down 


MERELY MICHAEL 


183 


the bowl to see how it burned, while Michael watched 
with a growing impatience. 

“Get on with it, man. It seems as if our last hope 
has gone, but I want to hear the whole of it—when you 
have quite finished with that pipe of yours.” 

Kelly regarded him from the corner of his eye and 
answered soothingly: “All right, Mr. Frayne, I’ll begin 
at the beginning, though there isn’t much of a beginning, 
and faith ! there’s less of an end. The facts are these : 
I was renewing my acquaintance with Little Italy on my 
way to the Muldoons’, looking about me as I walked, 
when what should my eye fall upon but a notice in an 
upper-storey window, ‘H. di Conti. Needlework and 
Embroidery.’ Well, thought I to myself, that’s strange 
now. So I went in to have a word with the old ice-creamer 
who lets out the apartments above. It is not the first 
encounter we’ve had, that same old Neapolitan vendor 
and myself ; once he was dragged into a nasty little affair 
out of which I had helped to extricate him. So he owed 
me one on that—but that is another story which is neither 
here nor there.” 

Here Kelly broke off to knock the ashes out of his pipe 
before continuing: 

“I spoke to him first about Muldoon and his doings, 
and he was perfectly easy in his answers, though his little 
beady eyes kept watching me all the while and wondering 
what the devil I was getting at with such small fry as 
the poacher’s friend. Then I turned the conversation, 
‘That’s a new lodger you’ve got upstairs,’ I began, and 
that was enough to set him going—the old scoundrel, he 
has all the garrulity of his years. The last of an old race, 
he informed me, and if all people came by their dues she 
would be the owner of millions instead of eating out her 
life in poverty. And so on I let him talk. 

“It seems that his father and his forefathers before 


184 


MERELY MICHAEL 


that had served the di Contis from time immemorial. 
How the latter fell from their high estate, and how they 
slowly died out until the war accounted for the last male 
members of the line, will not interest you any more than 
it did me. But I learned enough to know without a doubt 
that this slip of a girl is the very di Conti whom we have 
been looking for-” 

Here Michael cut in irritably : “But it can’t be. How 
do you make that out ? 

“Simply because she is the last of the family. We’ve 
come on her by a strange chance. Straws in the wind ; 
with all our reasoning and logic, that’s how we are driven 
to it in the end. Just as I was saying to the young lady 
last night. . . . She’ll be glad to know where it has driven 
me to-day.’’ And he chuckled to himself. 

But Michael, who was growing angered at the little 
man’s plain satisfaction in himself, retorted sharply: “I 
don’t think she will. It has brought us to another dead¬ 
end, that’s all.’’ 

“Dead-end ! Not a bit of it—at least not necessarily 
so. Of course you can call it what you please,” he added 
huffily, then subsided into a silence, puffing at his pipe 
and studying the wreaths of smoke as they curled upwards. 

Michael’s face grew grimmer with the frown that settled 
there. One dead-end after another, that was all he could 
see to it. First the tracking which ended in Muldoon, 
the poacher, and which, in turn led to the discovery of 
an innocent girl—the last of her race. So that avenue, 
too, was closed, and there seemed to be nothing for it 
but to begin all over again, with the solution of the mystery 
farther off than ever. Meantime the day of Dick’s trial 
was drawing nearer. And in face of this, he was fronted 
with the insufferable complacency of Kelly, who sat in the 
chair opposite, smoking and perfectly serene. So he took no 
time for his customary deliberation before he said bluntly : 



MERELY MICHAEL 


185 


"I am sorry, Kelly, but really I cannot see that there 
is anything to be pleased about.’* 

Kelly sat up in his chair at that. Then he answered 
stiffly: ‘'For one thing, Mr. Frayne, we have eliminated 
certain factors. Now we can put out of the reckoning 
your Monginis, and Peters, and Muldoons. Not one of that 
precious trio has been concerned in the murder. Not one of 
them has got the ‘ guts ’—or the motive. If they had, you 
may be sure Muldoon would never have dared to involve 
himself in any petty pilfering or poaching, as the case 
may be—which is all there is to that. Next, we can 
eliminate the di Conti herself. I tell you I have seen her 
with my own eyes, and there is more of the convent about 
her than the prison cell. I’ll stake my knowledge of 
psychology on that.” 

‘‘Maybe—then what remains?” 

‘‘One thing,” replied Kelly, just as curtly. ‘‘The 
person, or persons, who may have acted on her behalf 
without her knowledge of it.” 

Scepticism was plainly visible on the other’s face, but 
Kelly went on doggedly : 

‘‘I am not claiming that this is a natural corollary, Mr. 
Frayne. But it is a possibility, and sound enough at 
that. We are left, besides, with nothing else to work 
upon—that is why I am concentrating on it now. That 
is all, I think,” he added, with the incisiveness of a man 
put on his mettle. ‘‘And if you’ll excuse me now. I’ll be 
getting busy.” He rose. 

The strain of the past few weeks and the anxiety for 
the future must have told on Michael until he reached a 
pitch of exasperation outside his usual self. Besides, he 
was beginning to think Kelly an ass, and such he did not 
suffer gladly. 

‘‘It seems to me that the old Italian has succeeded in 


186 


MERELY MICHAEL 


hoodwinking you,” he said, after regarding Kelly for a bit 
and in silence. 

A dull red spread itself under the rubicund countenance 
of Kelly. “No, I’ll take my oath on that.” 

But Michael pursued his course to its end, in the de¬ 
liberate, inevitable fashion of the man. He concluded : 

“Either that, or else you’ve jumped to a hasty con¬ 
clusion in the matter of Muldoon and the others.” 

“Him ! ” Kelly’s voice rose. “It’s poaching he was 
after. Nothing more. I could have told you that much 
last night—only I didn’t want to let you down, and the 
young lady there, too. Maybe a stick of furniture he’d 
be taking, here and there. But he has no more to do with 
the murder than the sole of my foot—I know his kind.” 

The little man's eyes flashed furiously, his cheeks puffed 
out with indignation. 

“Do you wish me to carry on, Mr. Frayne ? ” he 
demanded. 

“Of course.” 

“Then, if you’ll excuse me saying it, I shall go about it 
in my own way in future—without any amatoors inter¬ 
fering. That, or not at all. The next report I shall make 
to you, Mr. Frayne, will be either complete success—or 
failure.” And with that he stalked from the room. 

So Michael was left alone with his own ill-humour. A 
recollection of M’Kerrel’s warning with regard to Kelly’s 
disposition increased his self-dissatisfaction. He was be¬ 
ginning to see that it was he who had been hasty in his 
conclusions—not Kelly; and that angered him, for he 
was very honest with himself. He had gained nothing 
by it, either, and now he had Esmee herself to face with 
the truth of it. 

He had promised to inform her at once of the results of 
Kelly’s inquiries, and he telephoned to her, making as 
light of his own disappointment as he could. At the same 


MERELY MICHAEL 


187 


time, he made an appointment to meet her before her 
departure from town later in the week. The following day 
he was to visit Dick in prison, and after that he intended 
to have a look round the old house on his way back, though 
of this he made no mention to her at the time. 


CHAPTER XXV 

I should like to be a fly on the wall and watch M’Kerrel’s 
face as he reads this : to see the humorous, twisted smile 
of the man, and to listen to his dry chuckle : “Mon, but 
yon was an awfu’like fule that he made o’ himsel’.” lean 
hear him say it, lapsing into his broadest Doric as he 
pondered on such unexpected action on the part of Michael, 
for whom the old fellow had a genuine liking. 

It was the next morning that Michael, encountering 
M’Kerrel in the Strand, turned and walked along with 
his friend in a direction which presently led up a quiet 
side-street. I fancy what Michael had been going through 
was changing him for the moment into a man of impulses, 
rather than one of grave deliberation, for he plunged at 
once into the thought that was uppermost in his mind. 

“Nothing but dead-ends, that’s all we have come upon, 
Mac,’’ he broke out despondently. 

M’Kerrel’s shrewd old face softened. He slipped a 
kindly hand through the arm of his young friend. “If 
it’s crime you’re alluding to,’’ he said, “we’ll discuss it 
generally, if you don’t mind. And speaking generally, 
Michael, I should say there are no such things as dead-ends 
in crime or in anything else. For you will find an opening 
somewhere even if you have to tunnel for it. And so 
you pass from one seeming dead-end to another less dead, 
and travel until you arrive at something living—be it 
for good or for evil.’’ 


188 


MERELY MICHAEL 


189 


His eyes took on their dreamy look as he continued: 

“ Life itself comes to a seeming dead-end. But who can 
tell ? There may be another beyond, and something 
beyond that again until we reach the living truth—some¬ 
where in infinity." 

Whatever the man’s beliefs, they were certainly too 
vast for mere religion. 

"But it was crime we were talking of," he went on 
quickly and with his dry smile, "not eternity; and God 
forbid that they should synchronise. There is a class of 
crime in the detection of which inferences and deductions 
play a leading part. Your habitual criminal can never 
dissociate himself entirely from his methods ; and it is a 
study of his idiosyncrasies that leads to detection in the 
end. He is comparatively easy to deal with, for you are 
working backwards as well as forwards, and the two ends 
must meet some time. But with a murderer who is a 
casual criminal, it is all new ground you are breaking ; he 
does not repeat his performances as a rule. Ordinarily 
speaking, murder is not a systematised crime, and that is 
what I mean by saying that inferences and deductions 
play a less important part in complex murders than the 
simple process of elimination—and often of mere luck in 
stumbling on the truth. . . . 

"But there, you take my advice, and trust yourself in 
Kelly’s hands. He understands all that as well as most- 
I know his methods ; he is sound and a sticker. He will 
narrow down the field of inquiry by this same process 
of elimination ; and then he will sit down and concentrate 
on the few possibilities remaining, even though that means 
merely watching straws. He has got more imagination 
than either you or I possess. Only, as I told you before, 
don’t get on the wrong side of him if you want to keep 
in his confidence." 

Michael said nothing to this, but kept his own counsel# 


190 


MERELY MICHAEL 


smarting under a fresh sense of his own indiscretion in 
the matter of Kelly. 

“Even if he falls short of success in time for the trial 
you must not despair. I take it the defence will counter 
by suggestions of as probable an alternative solution as 
may be. I am only speaking generally; when the trial 
is over we can discuss details more intimately than is 
possible now. Meantime, friend Michael," he added, 
gripping his arm, “do not lose heart." 

Only a week remained before Dick had to stand his 
trial on the charge of murder. 

As Michael entered the cell, Dick searched his face with 
a swift, almost furtive glance ; and reading the answer 
which he had read each time before, he turned away and 
sat crouched up, his head clasped in both hands. 

“There is no blinking the fact," he muttered. “The 
circumstantial evidence is strong enough to hang a man. 
I am not a coward; but it is a death—not easy to face, 
Michael. And I am innocent. . . . Oh, damn them ! " 
he cried, clenching and unclenching his hands. 

Brave he was to the pitch of a quixotic recklessness, as 
Michael well knew; of an impulsive chivalry, facing 
death with a laugh on the spur of the moment; but he 
was prostrate now with the strain of waiting, until the 
very fibres of his nature seemed to have weakened. 



“Ever since I heard the key turn in the door I have 
been on the rack, and now I am in a state of semi-sanity." 
He spoke staring fixedly in front of him. Suddenly he 
bowed his head, abandoning himself to unutterable despair. 

He told again of sleepless nights, and of nights in which 
he would awaken in a cold sweat of terror. But worst of 
all were the moments of sudden waking at dawn, the 
imagined touch of a hand on his shoulders summoning 
him to a shameful end. In presence of others, the fine 


MERELY MICHAEL 


191 


pride of the man would have kept him up ; but to Michael, 
in whom it was his custom to confide, in a manner which 
is rare among men, he unmasked himself, telling of the 
agonised hours of solitude when the day wore on with its 
disordered fancies, and its confused memories of other 
days. One day followed by another, and yet another, in 
a ghastly sequence. And the awful silence and the sun¬ 
lessness of it all. 

“I’d welcome a death in the open. But—O God, not 
this ! ” he breathed. 4 ‘Can you do nothing ? You have 
helped me out before—can you do nothing now ? ” 

And Michael, in a voice of incredible softness, answered : 
“We are doing all we can. It is bound to come right, 
old fellow ; never you fear. * ’ 

Dick calmed down, but it was with the dulness of despair 
and of apathjk Michael talked to him of Esmee, who had 
paid what visits she could to the prison ; but to-day 
there was no rousing him, he seemed scarce to listen. 

It was his last act of all which burned itself on Michael’s 
memory ; there was something so pitiable about it. 

A beam of wintry sunshine had struggled into the cell. 
Dick rose at once and made his way towards it, moving 
until the beam smote full upon his face. There was a 
far-away look in his eyes, which had lost consciousness of 
his friend’s presence. He stood perfectly motionless while 
the sunshine lasted. 

s *“It is good to feel it there again,” he said, whispering 
to himself. 

Then the light faded out and died. 

After leaving Dick, Michael motored over to Marley 
Pryors, and then straight on to the old house. His inten¬ 
tion was to have a rapid look over it, to see if it remained 
untouched after the recent happenings there; and with 
this object in view he had obtained the keys from the 


192 


MERELY MICHAEL 


local agents with whom they had been lodged. The last 
caretaker—and a burly man at that—had left one morning 
in a hurry, without any notice and with a scared look on 
his face, if all accounts were to be credited ; and his going 
had added immensely to the local ill-repute into which 
the old house had fallen. 

The grey morning had grown into a greyer afternoon, 
and very still. Not a breath of air stirred, and the clouds 
hung low. Seen from without, Marley House presented 
no prepossessing appearance in that sombre winter’s 
afternoon, but lay, brooding over some old, long meditated 
evil. 

As Michael got down from his car at the entrance, the 
old porch seemed to greet him with a sort of waiting 
menace. He closed the door softly behind him, and im¬ 
mediately was conscious of a curious sense of chill. 

“What nonsense!” he muttered under his breath, 
“Getting fanciful, that’s what you are. There is the 
same sort of eeriness in every empty house.” 

But as he made his round of inspection, then mounted 
the stair leading to the old wing, the sinister spirit of the 
place kept pace with him, step by step, until he found 
himself tip-toeing along, watchful even of his own shadow. 
For an instant he hesitated opposite the door that would 
usher him into the old hall—the * Room of Death.' And— 
he had to confess it—his heart beat more rapidly. He 
turned the handle swiftly, and crossed the threshold. 

He closed the door behind him again very softly. Almost 
noiselessly, he slipped across the hall and into the alcove. 
As he stood there, examining the valuable fixtures and 
satisfying himself that none of them had been tampered 
with, he whipped round once or twice and peered behind 
him expectantly—the sort of feeling that pulls one up 
instinctively to listen, and to long for human companion¬ 
ship. But not a sound broke the ghastly stillness. 


MERELY MICHAEL 


193 


Try as he might, he could not shake off the vague feeling 
of obsession which was gradually overtaking him. It began 
to irritate him, for there was no accounting for it to his 
logic save in the association of ideas, and he had prided 
himself on the possession of a mind impervious to that. 

He could find nothing whatsoever to confirm his sus¬ 
picions of any attempt at robbery, so after another hurried 
glance round he made his way down the steps and out 
by the conservatory door, the key of which was also with 
him. A slanting shaft of sunlight met him as he emerged 
and stood in the shrubbery, looking about him curiously 
to see if the three night-prowlers had left any traces behind 
them. But there was nothing to be made out of the hard 
gravelled pathway, showing signs already of neglect, as if 
infected like the house itself with death and corruption. 

He was on the point of retracing his steps to the front 
to re-enter his motor and drive off, when a small object 
under the yew hedge caught his eye. He picked it up and 
started as he found, on a closer inspection, that it was a 
cigarette of that peculiar brand which Dick had smoked, 
and which he had found in much the same place on the 
morning following the murder. 

Yes, there was no doubt about that. It was only half 
smoked, as had been the case with the previous one ; only 
this time it was brown and sodden with moisture, though 
the name was still distinguishable. How long it had lain 
there it was impossible to say, as it had remained well 
within the protection of the dense hedge, close to the 
roots of it. One thing was certain, that there were others 
besides Dick who smoked this unusual brand of cigarette 
in the neighbourhood. The solution that most readily 
suggested itself was that of Peters helping himself from 
Dick's stock. On the other hand, Kelly was convinced 
that neither Peters nor his confederates were in any way 
implicated in the murder. 

N 


194 


MERELY MICHAEL 


Gaining the open road, he let the car out; and as he 
flashed past the vicarage on his way back to London, his 
thoughts turned to Esm£e. In spite of her extravagant 
way of airiving at a conclusion, there was a self-reliance 
with which her war-work had endowed her. And yet 
there was all of a woman’s sweetness, and youth itself left. 
‘ Si jeunesse savait ’ was an established fact amongst 
many of the golden youth of the after-war—the youth 
which knows and yet which can. 

Yes, he would tell her just everything that had occurred, 
and they would work together for Dick’s freedom. Kelly 
could go his own way. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


Esm£e sided with Michael entirely; she is a staunch 
little soul, of a splendid enthusiasm for her friends and a 
lasting loyalty towards them in all their ways. He had 
explained the contretemps with Kelly, and how ruffled the 
small man had been in consequence. 

“You were perfectly right, Michael," she exclaimed. 

But this Michael refuted. He had too great a self¬ 
detachment not to detect when he was in the wrong, and 
too much honesty to let her think otherwise. 

“ No," said he, “it was I who was the ass—not Kelly." 

But she would not have it. She could say what she 
liked of him—but only to him. And no other person 
should be allowed to criticise Michael adversely—not even 
Michael himself. 

“No, Michael, you were right," she repeated. “I 
never did think much of him. Now we will work on our 
own, you and I. We will go round at once and see this 
di Conti person. A regular vampire type of woman, I 
know. But a man is such a stupid where a woman is 
concerned, and so easily taken in. Oh, I see it all now 1 
. . . We must discover whom it is she has egged on to do 
the murder for her—that is, if we are sure she did not 
do it herself," she added darkly and with enthusiasm. 

But there was a pale, wan look about her face. It was 
only her spirit that kept her up as the day of the trial 
loomed nearer. * 


196 


MERELY MICHAEL 


“ Yes, but-” 

“ I insist, Michael. I really do. I will say I have 
come to see her about some needlework. You leave it 
all to me.” 

Forcible she was for so small a woman, and Michael 
smiled at the unbounded confidence in herself, as also at 
her woman's disregard of the laws of consistency. He 
pointed out that her conclusions, in the main, were very 
much those for which she had just condemned Kelly. But 
he knew it was not a bit of good, even as he spoke. And 
it wasn’t. 

“Of course, if you ask me to-’’ 

“I'm not asking; it is a command. Just stay quiet 
a minute while I go and get myself ready. I shan’t be 
long.’’ 

She smiled bewitchingly at him from the door ; and 
what is more to the point, she was as good as her word. 
She is not the sort that keeps men waiting, however much 
she may keep them guessing. 

They descended from the taxi at the corner ; and telling 
the chauffeur to await their return, made their way along 
Bright Street. 

There was a nasty greasy mud on the footpath, and a 
greasy smell of Little Italy in the air—little warm breaths 
of it suggestive of fried fish and rancid butter. 

Michael kept watching the upper windows where Kelly 
had said the notice was displayed, and presently his eye 
alighted on : ‘ Needlework and Embroidery.’ 

He pointed this out to his companion, and they came to 
a halt outside an ice-cream ' parlour ’ which, in spite of 
its daubs and its dirt, was nevertheless a more respectable¬ 
looking tenancy than any in its immediate neighbourhocd. 

Esm^e’s eyes began to sparkle. She turned to Michael 
with a little intimate gesture, unexpectedly soft, and 



MERELY MICHAEL 


197 


which had characterised her attitude towards him once 
or twice of late. Quite subconscious on her part; and on 
his too subtle for definition. Only it beckoned him into 
the very heart of her thoughts, as it were, making him 
feel extraordinarily near to her, and alone with her. 

She said, in an excited whisper : “ We really are—on 
the track of things this time." 

He regarded her with a faint smile and nodded, carried 
away by the eagerness of her. "We’ll see,"he said, and 
opened the swing-door for her to pass through. 

Followed an interview with a large, fat Neapolitan who 
stood behind the counter in shirt-sleeves, and with some¬ 
thing of the pervading grease upon his face. When the 
girl had explained the nature of her errand, he said nothing, 
but called loudly upon his wife, who presently waddled 
into sight from the back premises—she being of an even 
greater proportion than her spouse—drying her huge bare 
arms on a very dirty end of her apron, and breathing great 
gusts of garlic at each step of her approach. At length, 
fetching up alongside, she stood and breathed stertorously, 
resting a small portion of her bulk on the counter, which 
groaned in consequence. Her beady black eyes, which 
seemed too small a fit for her face, fastened upon the 
two with suspicion. Then Esmee began to explain her 
wish of an interview with Miss di Conti relative to a com¬ 
mission for the execution of some needlework. 

Smiling as she stated her business, you could see (as 
Michael declared afterwards) suspicion melt. And finally 
the good lady, getting under way laboriously, propelled 
herself along at a tank-like waddle towards the stairs. 
There she commenced her tremendous ascent, explaining 
the difficulty she had with her breath before she started, 
and fully justifying the assertion before she had finished 

So the two followed the panting, amorphous wife of 
the ice-creamer at a snail's pace up an unspeakably dirty 


198 


MERELY MICHAEL 


staircase, the crazy boards of which groaned at every 
step. Esmee, who went second, turned round every now 
and then upon Michael with the round-eyed, impish 
mischief of a gamin, little ripples of laughter she could not 
keep back escaping her all the way. 

" She's a wonder ! ” she whispered. 

" One of the Alpini.” 

"It's the stairs I admire.” 

"It's the woman,"he laughed. 

It was Esm£e who knocked ; there was a note of challenge 
to it. The fat Italian stood and panted, then turned 
without a word and breathed her way down to the ground 
floor once more. 

Meanwhile the door had opened noiselessly, and Esmee 
gave a little start. For there, in the opening, stood a 
girl whose pallid face had the sweetness of expression and 
all the placid beauty of a Madonna—just as Kelly had 
said. Her great dark eyes, soft as a doe’s, fell upon her 
visitors with a calm, questioning glance, and she waited in 
perfect silence for them to speak. 

Kelly’s description of the girl should have led Michael 
to expect something of the sort, but he certainly was not 
prepared for this. Had he been alone, he would have 
found no words to meet the situation, and would have 
faced her, tongue-tied, like a raw youth snubbed into 
silence. As it was, thinking of the errand on which he 
had come, he experienced a sense of shame as he encoun¬ 
tered the sheer sadness of the girl’s glance. It was Esmee 
who came to the rescue. 

" Good-morning,” she said, " I am addressing Miss di 
Conti—is it not ? ” 

The girl bowed but did not speak, and Esmee continued 
in a manner which, for her, was curiously hesitating: 

" I—-I have been told about your needlework.” 

" Yes, madame,” the other replied, but with a certain 


MERELY MICHAEL 


199 


stateliness, as though she were about to confer, not to 
receive, a favour. Scarcely a trace of foreign accent was 
noticeable in her soft, low voice. 

“Then may we come in ? I should be so glad if you 
could find it convenient to undertake a little work for me." 

The swift perception of Esmee was what so pleased 
Michael. She who had come to condemn, was treating 
this poor girl with a deference from which all trace of the 
underlying sympathy was carefully excluded. 

The girl held the door open for them, and said : “ Will 
you be pleased to enter ? ” 

The room in which they found themselves was as dismal 
as you would have expected it to be in that quarter of 
Soho. The wallpaper—’Where it had not already peeled 
off—was of an ugliness incredible, the ceiling stained 
and blackened, and the plaster scaling. Yet there was a 
cleanliness about the room,in odd contrast to the outside 
squalor. An orderliness, too, though the wretched furni¬ 
ture spoke of better days. It was just that indefinable air 
of grace and refinement with which the present owner 
had imbued it, and which betrayed the gentlewoman of 
fastidious nicety. Nothing tangible ; a few odd ornaments, 
two old prints, a dainty hanging ; and all of them in the 
right place. That and the clean freshness of the room itself. 

As soon as she entered, Esmee had taken firm control. 
She explained her needs, entering into a mass of detail 
into which no masculine mind would care to venture. 

The light in the room was good, and Michael found 
himself studying the Italian girl’s face. How beautiful it 
was ; but how delicate, with its tell-tale flush and its 
wistfulness ! A little cough she gave at times, but holding 
it back as long as she could. 

“ Have you been in England long ? " Esmee was asking. 

“About a month.” 

“And your friend-, are they living in London ? ” 


200 


MERELY MICHAEL 


" There are the good people below who own the house. 
They were in the service of my family long ago.** 

Esmee looked at her aghast. " And is that all ? she 
asked, her voice vibrant with pity. " Surely you have 
some relatives here ? " 

“No/' came the wistful answer. 

Michael perceived that the only thought left in Esmee s 
mind was to help, and that the impulse of her generous 
heart was carrying her away. So when she said: "Oh, 
I am sorry 1 ” he was not unprepared for what followed. 

But the other girl's attitude stiffened in an instant. She 
stood looking from one to the other, very pale and very quiet. 

"Did anyone send you to me ? " she asked at last in a 
tone of icy formality. " I have a dread of charity," and 
she gave a little shiver. " I am a di Conti—I do not 
accept," she said, holding herself proudly. 

Odd how family pride should skip one generation to 
emerge in the next. 

If Michael felt desperately sorry for the girl, the effect 
on Esmee was instantaneous. She moved up to her with 
outstretched hands. 

"My dear," she said, a glimmer of unshed tears under 
her long lashes, " it is I who am asking. Won’t you do me 
the favour of helping me with this needlework ? . . . 
And—won’t you let us be friends ? " 

Now when Miss Esm4e looks at you in this way, it is a 
foregone conclusion. There is that in her asking which 
makes refusal unthinkable. The girl was visibly touchedf 

"You are too kind, I cannot think ..." She broke 
off, and looked hastily away. 

But Esm£e was not to be denied. That coaxing quality 
had come into her voice when she continued : " You must 
come to me—in the country, you know. And we’ll do the 
work together there. Pie-ease." 

Michael had turned away. When he looked again, the 
two girls were smiling into each other’s eyes. 


MERELY MICHAEL 


201 


“Michael/’ said Esm^e, “a week from to-day, you 
will motor Miss di Conti and myself to Mariey Pryors. 
Don’t forget.” 

Alas I the best-laid plans of a kind heart are not always 
realised. When the time came round and they called 
again at Bright Street,it was to find the bird flown, without 
a hint of her whereabouts to be had from the Italian and 
his wife, both of whom were grown lowering and suspicious. 

But to return to the present, we find them getting into 
the taxi again and in silence, this their last clue having 
ended seemingly in nothing. Once inside, it occurred to 
Michael that if he went on talking it might make it easier 
for her ; but she soon saw through that. Besides, however 
downcast she might be, she was not content to remain 
inactive long. 

“Heigho ! ” she said, sinking back in the taxi with a 
sigh. “And that’s the end of that.” 

Her violet eyes grew grave and wistful. But next 
instant she was sitting up, a very resolute look about her 
face and her little fists rolled up tight. 

“ We will do it yet. For oh 1 it has been so ghastly for 
him, Michael. I noticed such a change when I visited 
him last. If it goes on much longer, will it be Dick who 
comes out of it to us ? The same old Dick ? Sometimes 
I wonder. And—and it frightens me.” 

She had a look that saw far into the future as she spoke. 
After a pause, she said, with a sigh that almost ended in 
a sob before she was ever aware of it: 

“ Ah ! it is a sad old world. That poor girl, too ! I 
am so distressed about her. And such a dreadful cough I 
Poor thing, she could not raise her hand to hurt a fly.” 

“ Just what Kelly said.” 

“ Oh, bother Kelly I ” she exclaimed. 

After that Michael maintained a prolonged silence. 
But she went on, communing with herself aloud : 


202 MERELY MICHAEL 

“ She will need a lot of feeding-up, and fresh air and 
kindness. And it will be rather lovely having her to look 
after. She is so beautiful.... Don’t you think so, Michael ? ’ ’ 

“ I beg your pardon ? ” Michael wakened out of a long 
reverie into which he had fallen. 

“One says plain 'what?’ when it’s a friend one’s 
addressing. Nothing more cumbrous, thank you. Don’t 
you think Miss di Conti the most beautiful thing you have 
ever seen?—that was the question.’’ 

vShe looked at him beneath lowered lids ; and Michael 
took his time to answer it. 

“ Yes,’’ he said, “she is not bad looking, I daresay.’’ 

She opened her eyes wide. “ I’ve no patience with that 
sort of thing,’’ she announced. “ But you shall enthuse, 
Michael. You will come down and help me to entertain 
her. And then—we'll see.” 

'Every nice woman is a match-maker, as well as a mother, 
at heart. He’ll be beautifully tender to the woman he 
marries,’she was thinking. ‘He won’t want to “own,” 
but to be a comrade.’ 

Before he left her at the door, “ I do like you, Mickey,” 
she said, stroking his sleeve in a soothing way she has. 
“ At least, I rather love you for this : that yourefrain from 
saying all the things you might so well have said.” 

The door closed behind her, and she was gone. 

In the days which followed, there were times—and these 
grew more numerous as clue after clue failed them—when 
Michael almost came to wonder if there were not something 
after all in Bailey’s theory of an evil influence hanging over 
that 'Room of Death.’ Other thoughts, too, kept enter¬ 
ing his mind which he would not admit even to himself. 

And so the time wore on towards the day of the trial, 
and Esmee's cheerfulness grew a little more wistful, though 
her courage never failed. 


CHAPTER XXVII 

The Marley mystery had become a cause ctlebre. On 
the first day the trial opened, the approach to the county 
courthouse was thronged with people, many of them from 
among Dick’s intimate friends, or from among the outer 
circle of his acquaintanceship. But to Michael, a strong- 
nerved man and unsusceptible to morbid impressions, they 
seemed like vultures circling down upon their feast of 
death. 

It was an icy day outside, but his blood was on fire ; 
every fibre of his body was tense and overwrought in his 
struggle to maintain an outward calm. Within the Court 
itself was an atmosphere of nameless dread. 

Esm6e was there with her father. Her face lit up as 
she caught sight of Michael, and she gave him a brave 
little smile and a nod of her head. All the same, she was 
very pale, and her lips pressed close together. 

The opening speech was over. The prosecution pro¬ 
duced its witnesses in a formidable sequence. Dick 
looked wan, but he sat proud and motionless, resting his 
chin on his hands as he listened to the mass of evidence 
piled up against him. His prospects were growing black. 
Many in the Court, his friends included, regarded him as 
doomed already. But not a trace of emotion showed, save 
perhaps for a quivering of the thin, dilated nostrils ; not 
a sign of flinching for the world to see. 

Once he glanced at Michael, and a faint smile—the 

203 


204 


MERELY MICHAEL 


ghost of its old reckless self—rose to his lips. Michael 
smiled back, and all the time his heart was dead within 
him. 

For a time Michael was conscious only of a hum of 
voices. But Dick—-being tried for the murder of old 
Jimmy! That was the awful central fact round which 
his attention circled. 

And how absurd I Surely a nightmare madness, he 
argued, his mind travelling back to far-off times : from 
their school-days to Oxford, and then out into the world 
beyond, where, though their friendship never faltered, they 
had seen less of each other, Dick making himself popular 
in society with leisure at his command and a genius for 
getting through his money—a fact which the prosecution 
were to follow up in detail and to make the most of before 
the trial was ended. 

It was the sound of a remembered voice that brought 
Michael back with a start to his surroundings. Peters 
was in the witness-box, describing the finding of the body 
in sepulchral tones, and avoiding none of the harrowing 
details in the telling. 

Then the prosecution examined him : " You have been 
long in the family ? ' ’ 

" Served the late master faithfully for fifteen years, 

' . 9 9 

sir. 

“ You have then observed the accused over a period of 
years. Have you ever had occasion to suspect him of a 
temper which might one day lead to violence ? ” 

Peters squinted down the length of his nose. ''Sir/' 
said he, "it is not for the likes of me to say." 

He hesitated, then, with a show of reluctance,admitted 
a knowledge of the accused's hot temper. Pressed still 
further : 

“ An instance of it ? " he queried, moistening his lips 
with his tongue. "Well, there was, sir, now as you ask 


MERELY MICHAEL 


205 


the question, and as I am bound to answer truthfully in 
the sight of God and man. But it occurred when Mr. 
Dick was but a boy. Too trivial to recall.” 

He lowered his eyes to the ground; and Michael, who 
was now watching him closely, would have given a lot 
to have read what was in the depth of his mind at the 
moment. 

“ Pray let us have it, for all that.” 

But this the judge disallowed, and counsel amended the 
question. 

“ Have you ever noticed anything strained in the rela¬ 
tions between the accused and deceased—the more recent 
relations ? ” 

“ I have and I haven’t, sir. They’ve had their little 
disagreements; but nothing as you might call violent. 
Leastways, not to my knowledge.” This he uttered darkly, 
as though leaving it to be inferred that there were those 
who could vouch for it, if they would. 

As he stepped down from the witness-box his eyes 
met Michael’s. There was a momentary gleam in them, 
whether of malevolence Michael could never rightly say : 
but it was swiftly gone, though the scar disfiguring his 
forehead was a livid scar and seemed to twitch to life as 
he moved past, his eyes once more on the ground. 

Michael recalled the incident of that scar. Dick, then 
a boy of sixteen, in one of his ungovernable fits of temper, 
had lashed out at Peters, who was the cause of his annoy¬ 
ance, with the result that the man slipped and in falling 
had cut his head badly against the fire-irons. More than 
once in the past it had occurred to Michael that Peters, 
with all his powers of repression, was a man who never 
forgave. 

Then came the medical evidence of Capper, which placed 
twelve o’clock and three o’clock as the limits of time 
between which the murder could have been committed. 


206 


MERELY MICHAEL 


“ I say murder,” he announced in his cocksure tones, 
his cold green eyes protruding like gooseberries from his 
head. ” Because in my opinion death could not have 
occurred otherwise—-no matter what the defence may 
have to say in that respect.” 

He perked his head defiantly in the direction of Sir 
Charles Barker, who sat smiling urbanely upon him. 

Capper then proceeded to explain—and with considerable 
clarity and conciseness, it must be confessed—the relative 
positions of the bullet’s entry and the position of the 
pistol on the floor, deducing his theory of murder, over 
which he lingered gloatingly. Further, he recalled the 
state of mental distress which he had observed in the 
accused during the examination of the body. There was 
a forcible assurance in the way in which he delivered his 
evidence that carried conviction with it. Certainly a 
‘hanging doctor ' if ever there was one, but overdoing it, 
perhaps, in the view of the more fastidious of the jury¬ 
men. 

But the shadow in the Court had crept in closer. 

Sir Charles Barker, counsel for the defence, rose to his 
commanding height; polished, silken tongued, and coldly 
smiling. He was a great gaunt man, with a hawk-like 
nose and a chin thrust fiercely up to meet it. There 
was something reassuring about him as he turned upon 
his old opponent with a steely look. 

“ Now, Dr. Capper,” he began in his slowest drawl, 
“ will you be so good as to attend to me for a moment ? ” 

Capper caught fire at once ; his coldness left him. The 
Court settled down, with a sigh, to listen, and the coughing 
and the shuffling almost ceased. 

" I understand you to say that the position of the pistol, 
taken in conjunction with the point at which the bullet 
entered, is the chief reason—in fact, your only reason—for 


MERELY MICHAEL 


207 


stating that death could be due to no other cause than 
murder ? ” 

“Yes,” snapped Capper. 

“And that the position of the pistol is incompatible 
with the idea of suicide ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ You do not mean to say that it was quite impossible 
for the deceased to have fired the shot himself, no matter 
how unusual the position, or the angle ? ” 

“ I never said so.’ 

“Quite so,” Barker said soothingly, which made his 
deprecating suavity more provoking than ever. “ Now 
supposing the deceased had fired the shot himself at this 
unnatural angle, will you please tell the Court precisely 
where the pistol would have dropped—I mean, relatively 
to the position in which you found it ? ” 

Capper hesitated. He feared a trap. He feared still 
more the veiled ridicule which would be his lot should 
he temporise. He answered sullenly: 

“ About a foot to a foot and a half to the rear.” 

“ Do you, Dr. Capper, mean to tell the Court that you 
can say to within six inches the position at which the 
pistol would have come to rest, making due allowance 
for rebound as it struck the ground ? ” 

Barker’s smile was superior, and you could see the 
pomposity ooze out of Capper, who became flustered, and 
ended by thoroughly losing his temper—just what was 
wanted of him. 

“ In the supposition you make, any rebound which— 
which might have occurred, should have carried the pistol 
further to the rear of the actual position in which it was 
found, as already stated. It—it is quite plain,” he 
stuttered. 

Had he kept his temper, he could have made his meaning 
perfectly clear ; but he was growing incoherent. Here, 


208 


MERELY MICHAEL 


then, was the opening. Barker pounced, and you could 
almost have imagined the clash of the hawk's impact 
upon its prey, in the manner of it. 

" So you have not made any allowance for rebound after 
all, Dr. Capper." He glanced across at the jury with a 
meaning smile before turning round deliberately and 
fastening his gaze on the judge. 

Capper could still have righted himself had he regained 
his calm ; instead of that, his temper rose. 

" I suppose you know more about it than I who saw 
it," he snarled, glaring at counsel for the defence. 

"No, I have only heard the facts. But," and here he 
paused to give full force to the point he was making, 
" but I have got an open mind." 

" Meaning I have not ? " 

Barker smiled and shrugged his shoulders, a gesture 
conveying to the Court the meaning : ‘ Wear it if the cap 
fits/ 

" Meaning," he drawled, " that there is a little thing 
called ‘ rebound * which I have not lost sight of and which 
you apparently have." 

" I have not—I-" 

"Oh, now you recollect it, of course. . . . Thank you, 
Dr. Capper, that is really all I have to ask you." 

And Capper sat down, a raging, baffled look on his face. 
A suppressed titter went round the Court; the antagonism 
was well enough known to the public, and there was 
little doubt in which direction the public sympathy lay. 

But this was the one bright spot. There was evidence 
to follow which was damning enough. 

During the course of his examination, Bailey had to 
admit—as Michael after him—that James Mar ley was 
well and cheery when they bade him good-night. Bailey 
repeated what had been elicited from him when the case 
came up before the magistrate. 



J 


MERELY MICHAEL 209 

Yes, he had seen the accused after retiring to his room. 

" When was that ? ” he was asked. 

“ I should say about one hour after going to my room.” 

” That would bring the time to about 1.30 a.m.,” counsel 
for the Crown remarked. " Pray continue.” 

"The wind had kept me awake. It was during a lull 
in the storm that I heard him passing my door on his way 
to his room. I called to him, and when he entered we 
chatted and smoked for about half an hour.” 

Asked if accused had shown any signs of perturbation, 
Bailey paused before replying : 

** No, I do not recollect anything of the sort.’ 

" And you heard nothing after that ? ” 

"Nothing. I fell asleep.” 

It was obvious to Michael that Bailey had replied with 
difficulty in the negative, and there fell upon him a nameless 
dread of the questions that might be sprung upon him. 
There was always the fear of that one question cropping 
up, and it had robbed him of his self-confidence from the 
moment of his entering the Court. 

As the thought was passing through Michael’s mind, 
Bailey stepped down from the witness-box. Michael’s 
turn had come. 

His heart kept thumping against his ribs as he took the 
oath. It was Dick’s life that hung on the balance, against 
which an ill-considered reply might turn the scales ; and 
thought of this distracted him at first, making him almost 
nervous. His power of concentration left him, the coughs 
and noises of the Court irritated him abnormally. 

But counsel for the Crown was on his feet, and, when he 
began to question, a great calm came over Michael, until 
he lost consciousness of every other personality in the 
Court. His forceful detachment had returned to him. 

After some relatively unimportant questions, counsel 
said : " You are a friend of the accused, Mr. Frayne ? ” 

O 


210 


MERELY MICHAEL 


" Yes. 

“ A great—in fact, a lifelong friend ? ” 

" Yes.” 

“Then you are probably aware of the financial straits 
into which the accused had fallen, and regarding which 
evidence will be produced shortly ? ” 

This Michael admitted, smothering back his fiist in¬ 
clination to temporise. 

“ Will you please tell us when he mentioned them to 
you ? Or better, let me put it to you this way,” he went 
on, watching witness’s face narrowly : “Was it before 
the tragedy occurred ? ” 

Michael thought for a moment before he spoke. Interest 
in the case quickened. Evidence of that there was in the 
muffled silence. The old lady at the back stopped clearing 
her throat. Even the judge leaned forward to listen the 
more intently. It was one of these curious lulls when the 
mind of the crowd is swayed, as it were, by a common 
impulse. 

“ Yes,” he said at last in a level voice, meeting counsel's 
eye without flinching. 

“ Was the deceased aware, at that time, of the 
facts ? ” 

The frown kept gathering on Michael’s face, but he 
answered calmly: “I believe not.” 

A draught from an open door rustled the papers counsel 
held in his hand. There was an imperceptible pause. 
Then : 

“Did the accused tell you, or did he say anything to 
lead you to suppose that he contemplated confessing the 
facts to his uncle ? ” 

Here it was at last—-the chill foreboding that had 
been haunting him ever since the morning, and which had 
assumed a definite, a menacing shape at last. The question 
that would tend to fasten the noose about Dick’s neck. 


MERELY MICHAEL 211 

And it was he—Dick's friend—who was called upon to 
answer. 

Michael was at war with himself as he listened to the 
voice, inexorable as fate, repeat the question. 

“I am afraid, Mr. Frayne, I must press you for an 
answer to that question." It was the judge who had 
interposed. 

In the Court, dead silence. But all at once, Michael 
was aware of the Court clock beating a thunderous time 
with his heart as it ticked its way on to eternity. The 
sound rose to a deafening pitch ; it was marking out the 
moments of a man's doom. 

The lie was already forming on his lips. Suddenly a 
voice, cold, clear, and perfectly calm : 

" Y$s, I told him." 

Another silence, more stifling than the last. Then the 
gasp of incfrawn breaths, like a flutter of invisible wings. 

"Yes, I told him," Dick repeated in ringing tones. 
“ And I don’t care who knows it. I have nothing to 
conceal. I am innocent." 

He looked very handsome in his defiance, his head 
thrown back in its pride of youth, and his fine dark eyes 
flashing a reckless fire. The colour had returned to his 
cheeks. It was Dick once more—the old Dick, in one of 
his supreme moments. 

Every eye was straining on the figure in the dock, gal¬ 
lantly defending his friend's honour at his own life's risk. 
A wave of emotion swept through every member of the 
Court. A murmur was in the air; the jury was visibly 
impressed. Michael glanced round and beheld Esmee— 
her head erect, her face flushed and eyes shining. Love 
for Dick was filling his own heart; the protective instinct 
of the man was roused to its fullest. 

Barker, leaping to his feet, seemed to tower above the 
situation. He was a man of considerable, dramatic sense, 


212 


MERELY MICHAEL 


and here was the time to register his effect, when emotions 
were aroused. 

“Can you positively assert that it was the accused's 
intention to confess to his uncle ? Was it on the very 
night of the murder—meaning that the deceased was 
unaware of the facts before ? ” 

To both of which questions Michael replied in the 
affirmative, beginning to have an inkling into the drift of 
them. 

“ And you understand it was his intention to do this 
after you and Mr. Bailey had retired to bed ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“You have known the deceased for practically all your 
life. Now do you think he was the man to disown the 
nephew who was his only near relative alive, and whom 
he had brought up as his own son ? ” 

“ Absolutely not.” 

“ But even if such had been his intention, do you 
think he was the man to act on the impulse of the 
moment ? ” 

“He never would, of that I am certain.” 

“ Yet he must have proceeded to change his will in front 
of the accused if the motive alleged by the prosecution is 
to carry any weight; and drafted and signed a fresh will 
there and then, if the charred fragment of paper produced 
by the prosecution is to have any part in condemning 
the accused.” Barker held the attention of the jury as 
he said this, then turning again to Michael: “ Was there 
any threat to the deceased’s life from another quarter 
altogether ? ” 

“There was. ’ And Michael referred to it briefly, in 
his curt, concise way. 

Barker then remarked that he would presently produce 
evidence to show that the deceased contemplated altera¬ 
tions in his will in connection with these very threats, and 


MERELY MICHAEL 


218 


long before he had ever heard of his nephew's financial 
entanglements. And with that he sat down. 

There followed some evidence for the prosecution, of 
minor importance, and by five o'clock the Court had 
adjourned. 

And so ended the first dav of the trial. 

w 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


Bailey and Michael left the Court together. It was 
market-day in the sleepy old country town; the streets 
were crowded with a chattering, laughing throng of country 
folk. 

Coming from a scene wherein a man’s life was at stake, 
and that man his dearest friend, the gaiety of the outside 
world bit into Michael’s consciousness. He hurried along 
with grave and frowning face. 

The trial had upset Bailey to an even greater extent, 
as was to be looked for in a nature so highly strung and 
so profoundly emotional as his. The expression of horror 
had not yet faded from his eyes. He was nervous as a 
child ; his fingers twitched, and the lines about his sensitive 
mouth were drawn and hard. 

“ What do you think of it ? ” he asked in a hoarse 
voice. 

In spite of the cold, there were tiny beads of sweat on 
his forehead. 

“He’ll win through,’’ Michael answered with set jaw. 

At the street corner a miserable relic of humanity, blind 
and a cripple, sat huddled up, a pitiful bunch of laces in 
his hand. Bailey fell behind. “ Poor devil! ’’ Michael 
heard him mutter in a voice that was tense with pity; 
and glancing back, saw him slip a piece of silver into the 
old man’s hand. 

“ On an icy day like this it hurts, you know,’’ he ex¬ 
plained apologetically as he caught Michael up. “ It 


MERELY MICHAEL 


215 


seems such a shame that some people have all they want 
in the world, and to spare, while others have to go without 
all the time. I'm a bit of a socialist in a way. . . . Be¬ 
sides, it hurts to see a fellow like that.” And he seemed 
easier in his mind afterwards. 

Bailey was a curious mixture of incongruous qualities; 
there were many facets to his character. He had ever 
been an enigma to Michael, from that first day at school 
when he had seen him stand up to a boy twice his size in 
defence of a still smaller boy who had richly deserved 
the hiding he was getting. There was a vivid picture of 
Bailey’s pale, sensitive face, twitching from nervous 
apprehension of what he was doing, and a sort of fascinated 
horror in his glittering eyes as he took what was coming 
to him with an almost unnatural pluck. Odd that the 
memory should have recurred now. He covertly watched 
his companion as they walked, seeing in the man many 
traits he remembered in the schoolboy : quixotic, sensitive 
to a degree, emotional. But Michael, simple himself, and 
direct in vision as in action, was unable—or he did not 
take the trouble-—to follow any such complexities and 
contradictions. 

The two men had walked some little distance along the 
main street before they singled out Esm£e and the vicar 
among the crowd in front of them. 

“ What about tea ? ” Michael suggested as he noticed 
the Favorils enter a large confectioner’s shop with ‘Tea 
Room ’ superscribed above its lintel. 

Bailey assented. 

Esm6e caught sight of them as soon as they entered, 
and beckoned them over to her table, the vicar welcoming 
them with his vague smile. 

The vicar had an indeterminate chin and a vague 
indecisiveness. He was a scholarly old gentleman with 
the classical mind of a dilettante,and a kindly disposition ; 


216 


MERELY MICHAEL 


and he submitted with a good grace to the home rule of 
his only child, of whom he was extremely fond in his 
irresponsible way. Indeed, Esm^e's attitude towards 
her father was maternal in its protectiveness rather than 
filial. ‘ She has a will of her own, the vicar would say. 
‘Well, these are changing times we live in, and we have 
got to change with the—er, times,’ he would add, and 
vaguely leave it at that. To see the two together made 
you wonder whence she derived hex resolute character, 
unless it could have been from the mother who had died 
in giving her birth. Possibly, too, the age and the times 
were responsible for developing such a strength of person¬ 
ality in the short twenty years’ span of her existence. 

The vicar and Bailey found much in common. They 
discoursed learnedly concerning frescoes and mosaics, 
while Esmee turned to Michael. 

“Wasn’t Dick just splendid, ” she exclaimed, “speak¬ 
ing up as he did! I could have hugged him for that, in 
front of everyone.’’ 

“ It was,’’ said he, “ just Dick. 

Then she said, swinging off at a tangent, as is sometimes 
her custom : “ Oh, Michael, didn’t you hate him ? ” 

“ The doctor ? ’’ 

“ Yes. The very thought of him makes me creep. I’ve 
told dad he is never to be allowed near the vicarage. I 
could almost—-yes, I really did love Sir Charles Barker. 
He was all over the little man in a second. It was lovely 
to watch him go down, like a balloon when you’ve stuck 
a pin in it.’’ 

The small round face broke into a smile. But, downcast 
the next instant, she asked him what was to be. the end 
of it. 

Michael actually did not know what to think. Barker 
had made one or two points in their favour which helped 
to neutralise the bad ; but allowing foi these, he still was 


MERELY MICHAEL 


217 


filled with an apprehension he was grimly trying to thiow 
off. What he said was : 

“ We'll have to wait for to-morrow. But—we’ll win 
through." 

“Oh, Mickey,” she leaned towards him, lowering her 
voice, "life is a dreadful thing—I never knew how terrible 
till now. Here we are, Dick's dearest friends, having tea 
in comfort; talking of things—and, yes, laughing; 
while he lies there alone—waiting. It will take so much 
to make up to him—afterwards." 

She clenched her little fists until all the blood was 
driven from them, and her great eyes rested on him in a 
mute appeal. Her trust and confidence was a memory 
which was to remain with him. 

“ Yes, life is a far worse thing than I ever thought it 
could be. It is so—so unheeding. There is such an 
isolation when the time comes. And in the end we have 
to go out alone—-pass into space by ourselves. Sometimes 
it frightens me . . . Mickey." 

Her hand touched his ; a fluttering of her fingers—and 
t was gone. The wistfulness of her beauty hurt him. . . . 

There had been a lull in the conversation, and Bailey 
now turned to the girl in his graceful way. 

“Yes/'he said,"life is a curious admixture of tragedy and 
farce. And man, in much the same way,is his own paradox." 

He must have sensed rather than heard the turn their 
conversation had taken. He was a man who fell in readily 
with a mood of the moment ; there was always incon¬ 
stancy as well as versatility in his talents. He laid himself 
out to interest her, gradually monopolising her attention 
almost against her own volition. 

Bailey’s expression as a rule was gloomy and distrait • 
but conversing on a subject which interested him he 
could be all animation in a moment. At such times his 
fine dark eyes would become extraordinarily brilliant and 


218 


MERELY MICHAEL 


his features light up. His eloquence would grip his 
audience with the fascination of it. He was passionately 
fond of art. Indeed, beauty in any form would give an 
exquisite pleasure to his highly-strung nature. The girl 
seemed to bring out the best that was in him, and she 
listened to his talk, spellbound, while Michael maintained 
a silence, admiring the versatility of his friend, and himself 
unable to cope with the vicar's frescoes. The vicar con¬ 
tinued to discuss them from many standpoints. Michael 
listened respectfully, and tried to look wise. 

But when they left the tea-room the girl quickly attached 
herself to Michael, leaving the vicar and Bailey to follow 
behind. 

“Michael." She spoke softly after a silence in which 
she kept looking up at him. 

“ Yes ? " 

“ Do you know, I don't think I much like clever people 
after all." 

Michael smiled and nodded. “ Bailey is clever—or is 
it I ? " he asked. 

But to this she made no reply. 

It was the last day of the trial. Excitement had risen 
to a fever pitch. 

The examination of the last witness was drawing to a 
close. Michael gazed fixedly at the jury; some of them 
were familiar to him as local tradesmen, but their faces 
were inscrutable now as the sphinx. It was between these 
and the clock that he divided his attention. Both had 
the same inexorable expression, only that of the clock 
grew grimmer as the black hands crept ruthlessly round it. 

Kelly was in Court, as before, but never once returned 
Michael's gaze. There was a suppressed excitement about 
him as he watched the proceedings; his little eyes kept 
flickering incessantly. 


MERELY MICHAEL 


219 


All at once the drone of voices ceased. There was a 
rustling in the Court, a shuffling of feet, and above all else 
that spasmodic coughing which had pervaded Michael's 
senses so persistently. 

He looked up to find that the last witness had left the 
box. People were preparing themselves for the last scene 
of all in a grim tragedy. Again that feeling of unreality 
swept over him. It was Dick whose life trembled in the 
balance, Dick whom he had protected before now. Oh, 
but it was all absurd! A hideous nightmare from which 
he must awaken if only he could strive hard enough. . . . 

Jervase was prosecuting for the Crown, and his summing- 
up was a terrible one. According to him, there could be 
but one decision. This : that the accused, who had raised 
money on the reversion of his uncle's will, had at last been 
compelled to confess the fact; and finding that his uncle's 
intention was to disinherit him in consequence, had had 
recourse to murder. The motive was the strong feature 
of the case, but there was plenty of corroborative evidence 
besides, and this he would briefly summarise. 

There was the fact that the accused was one of a probable 
four to know of the secret panel wherein the pistol lay. 
There was the charred fragment of paper, plainly part 
of a legal document. He submitted that the deceased 
had, on the fatal night, outlined a new will in the presence 
of his nephew with the intention of giving effect to it as 
soon as morning afforded him the opportunity ; and that it 
was then that the accused resolved upon the murder of 
his uncle. It was known that he had a pistol in his room 
of the same calibre. 

Evidence served to indicate that the accused must 
have bade his uncle good-night, gone to fetch his pistol, 
then returned from the outside and through the con¬ 
servatory door, thus coming on his victim from behind 
the portiere and shooting him, The fall of snow over- 


220 


MERELY MICHAEL 


night and the subsequent thaw had removed any traces 
which might otherwise have remained of the accused’s 
approach from outside. This, he admitted, was the link 
that was missing. It was unlikely that anyone could 
steal up through the great length of the hall without 
attracting deceased’s attention, and the method of ap¬ 
proach—to which every other circumstance also pointed 
—-must have been the one already indicated, though no 
direct evidence of that had come to light. 

Michael listened to this with tightened jaw. There was 
a grim look about his face as he thought of the half-smoked 
cigarette which he had found—and concealed. Had he 
not discovered it in time, Dick would not have had even 
a fighting chance of his life. He sat very still and listened 
to Jervase, who was continuing. 

The evidence of the doctor removed, in his opinion, any 
idea of suicide for which there was admittedly no motive, 
and the signs of which none of those who had last seen 
him alive had detected—or indeed could associate him with. 

“Then," said Jervase impressively, “fearing the con¬ 
sequences and trying to conceal the evidence of a crime— 
the murder of an uncle and benefactor—the accused had 
taken the deceased's pistol from its secret resting-place, 
and set it on the ground so that suicide should be inferred. 
But, fortunately tor the ends of law and justice . . And 
so on to an impressive finish. 

Barker’s speech for the defence was a masterpiece of 
forensic eloquence. He began by admitting that there 
was nothing in the deceased’s past, or in his character, to 
lead to the suspicion of suicide, except—and here he 
paused—except in that curious choice of an old gloom-ridden 
hall for use as a sitting-room. It was a place haunted by 
old tragic memories. 

He was not, he averred, a superstitious man himself. 
In fact, he regarded himself as normal, with a normal 


MERELY MICHAEL 


m 


man's outlook on things. But he would not dream of 
occupying a room in which two suicides had occurred in 
the past, were he given a choice in the matter ; and would 
challenge any other sane man to an occupation now of 
what had popularly become known as the* Room of Death/ 

" I do not go so far as to say that I ascribe the death of 

James Marley to any preternatural agency. But-” 

and he made another of his effective pauses, while fixing 
the jury with his gaze. “The history of the room is un¬ 
doubtedly a curious one, where there have been unusual 
happenings more than once in the past. Who could say 
what influence might cling, urging a man to his death ? 
For the influence of thought and its permanence as a record 
is a force which will have to be reckoned with when the 
clouds of superstition and of charlatanism which presently 
veil it are brushed aside/’ 

It was thus, by subtle suggestion, that counsel for 
defence appealed for a moment to that superstitious 
streak of which few men’s minds are wholly free. Much 
had been made in the newspapers of the hauntings of the 
old house, as has already been stated, and the public 
imagination was in a ripe state of mind to receive the 
impression which counsel was bent on stamping on it. 

Swiftly he passed on to physical facts. The theory of 
murder, he maintained, had not been definitely established, 
in which connection he made another thinly-veiled attack 
on Dr. Capper. And even if murder were assumed, then 
motive was the only fact that could be proved against 
the accused. But what of the threats levelled against 
deceased’s life from another quarter altogether, the evi¬ 
dence regarding which was irrefutable ? 

“ Nay, stronger. We have it on unimpeachable 
authority that the deceased intended giving effect to a 
will to exclude all heirs of one who had threatened his life, 
and that the draft of this had been submitted to him for 



222 


MERELY MICHAEL 


signature. This was some time previous to the tragedy, 
and there is strong reason to suppose that deceased had 
carried out his intention in the meantime. 

” On the other hand, the deceased had only known of 
his nephew’s difficulties an hour or two before he had met 
with his death, and consequently had had no reasonable 
time in which to execute a fresh will. Therefore the 
probability was (he submitted) that the will destroyed was 
one which it was the interest of the other party to 
destroy and had nothing whatsoever to do with the 
accused. After all, it was mere assumption on the part 
of the prosecution that the deceased had formed any 
intention of disinheriting his nephew. Whereas it was 
not assumption that a draft will was in existence (and 
since missing), disinheriting the other : it was fact. 

” You cannot hang a man on mere assumption. A man’s 
life must hang on a less slender thread than that.” 

And so, bit by bit, he sheared through the weakest links 
in the chain of evidence against the accused by throwing 
doubt upon them and by suggesting alternatives. The 
fact that no trace had been found connecting any specific 
person or persons with the threats against the deceased's 
life, he passed over in guarded silence. The whole trend 
of his defence was to suggest other possibilities and to give 
them as great a semblance of probability as might be. And 
of this he made a conspicuous success. 

“ Gentlemen of the jury,” he concluded, ” I would adjure 
you not to send a man to his death on this tissue of in¬ 
ferences. Bear in mind the probability of other alterna¬ 
tives before arriving at your verdict.” 

And with a few more words to this effect, counsel for 
the defence resumed his seat. 

The jury cannot have been absent for more than half 
an hour, yet it seemed to Michael as though days had fled 
and nights passed before they filed back again. There 


MERELY MICHAEL 


223 


was a curious buzzing in his head as he waited for their 
words. 

“ Not guilty.” 

The verdict was received in dead silence. There was a 
pause, then the Court stirred to life once more. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


Except that Dick was free, the position was much as it 
had been before, and the solution of the mystery as far 
off as ever it had been. This was the opinion which 
Michael expressed to M’Kerrel, to whom he paid a visit 
the day after the trial. 

“ I am afraid/’ he said, “ that a considerable section of 
the public will continue to regard poor Dick with suspicion 
until it is cleared up.” 

“ Aye ! ” M’Kerrel returned, stroking his chin, “it may 
be so. In Scotland the verdict might have been one of 
Not Proven.” 

“And an English jury, having no such loophole, have 
given him the benefit of the doubt ? ” 

“ Just that.” 

“Well, we are not going to let it rest there. Dick is 
free, but the task is not yet ended.” Michael looked very 
grim and determined as he spoke. 

“H’m,” said M’Keirel. “And what is Kelly saying 
to it all ? Yon’s not the man to leave a job half-finished, 
once he’s taken it in hand.” 

In answei, Michael had then to admit the pass to which 
matters had come between Kelly and himself. The older 
man chuckled drily. 

“ Man, was not that what I was telling you from the 
beginning? He is a quick-tempered little Celtic body 
and not slow to take offence. But I’ll be meeting him 
myself one of these days, and I’ll see what he has to say 
for himself.” 


224 


MERELY MICHAEL 


225 


It was a day or two later that Michael encountered 
Kelly emerging from his office in his usual hurry. 

"Hullo, Kelly ! " he sang out in his hearty voice. 
"I was on my way to see you to say that I hope you are 
going to carry on for us. We are not at the end of the 
road yet, even though our man has been acquitted." 

Kelly’s face grew shinier in the morning sun, which 
melted all trace of rancour from it. 

"Sure," he said with a grin. "And if you want to 
know the truth of it, I was just after the same myself 
when you stopped me. I will be taking another run down 
to the old house one of these days." Then, cocking his 
head on one side and peering up at Michael, he said: 
"You’ll be wanting to know what it is I’m after this 
time ? " 

"Of course I do, Kelly." 

"Well, and I’ll not be telling you, except that it is 
eliminating I am." He spoke in the best of humour. 

But not another word could be got out of him, though 
there was more of assurance than Michael remembered to 
have experienced before. 

Dick had gone off immediately after his acquittal. He 
was going into the heart of the country. 

"I do not know where," he said. "But I must get the 
prison air out of my lungs. I want to wallow in the 
sunshine and to forget. And I want to be alone. Don’t 
think me ungrateful, old fellow. I know what you have 
all done for me and I shall never forget. But just for a 
bit I want to be alone." 

Michael had to leave it at that, appreciating a little of 
what the other must be feeling, but not understanding 
altogether except what was plain to the eye—that his 
friend had not wholly recovered his balance after the 
awful experience through which he had passed. Then 

P 


226 


MERELY MICHAEL 


it flashed across his mind that Dick would be meeting 
Esmee, and not wishing to take anyone into his con¬ 
fidence until the whole of that was settled. Therefore he 
did not venture further, but turned, with a sigh, to other 
things. 

A fortnight passed, and no word from Dick. Michael 
could not understand it. Each day he had anticipated 
news of the engagement, and each day the post had been 
a blank. 

It was the first Sunday in February, but the morning 
broke as mild as a May day. Sun streamed in at the 
window, and there was a quiver of spring in the air as 
the old earth turned in its sleep. Faint as a breath, it 
was yet a promise—that, alas ! which is ever more joyous 
than the fulfilment. 

Since the conclusion of the trial Michael had heard 
nothing from his friends in Marley Pryors; and, fight as 
he would, with each day that passed the picture of a little 
piquant face and round violet eyes came dancing vision 
like before his gaze. 

But on this morning there was the sun, as I have said, 
and Michael was young. A vague purpose brought him 
out of bed, singing ; though like Mr. Jorrocks of immortal 
memory, he knew but two songs—that which was ‘God 
Save the King,’ and that which wasn't. He whistled 
them both as he entered the dining-room, and flung the 
window wide open. 

It was early. The church bells had not yet begun to 
clang out. Instead, a small rude urchin in the street 
below, squinting cheekily up at him, commenced an ex¬ 
aggeration of the tune Michael was whistling and rendered 
purposely out of tune. But Michael listened and gave a 
great laugh, which was not at all for what that small boy 
hoped. 

The balmy air had got into Michael’s blood, and as he 


MERELY MICHAEL 


227 


sat down to breakfast he had come to a decision. He 
would take a spin into the country; possibly (and this is 
all he would admit to himself) in the direction of Marley ; 
lunch at the Marley Arms, and return in the evening. 

At the gate of the vicarage he pulled up. He might, he 
reflected, be able to get some news there of Dick, so in he 
went. 

I fancy Miss Esmee was pleased to see him. Anyhow 
her smile was dazzling as she held out her hands to him— 
both of them. 

Michael stated the object of his visit to Marley Pryors— 
it was to inquire after Dick. 

“ So it was to ask about Dick that you paid us a visit ? ” 

She looked towards the fire, a little curve forming 
about the corners of her lips. Then she picked up a piece 
of embroidery and fixed her attention upon that. 

The vicar was understood to be wrestling with his 
thoughts in the study. Esmee called it having a nice long 
think,and said that he must not be wakened on any account. 
So the two had the room to themselves ; and as they sat 
by the fire and chatted Michael kept watching the transient 
lights that played hide-and-seek in her eyes as she bent 
over her needlework. The wonderful mobility of her 
face kept baffling him ; he was always wondering what 
would happen next. Yes, he concluded, it was good 
to see her again, and he gave a sigh of contentment which 
concerned the present and deliberately refused to con¬ 
template the bare to-morrow. 

“Was that the only reason? ” she insisted, biting off 
a thread with her small white teeth. And then she darted a 
dazzling look at him from under her thick black lashes which 
captured one of his reluctant smiles, as was intended of it. 

She laid down her work and began to rummage in a 
mauve satin bag by her side. 


228 


MERELY MICHAEL 


“Now it’s no use pretending,” she said, selecting a skein 
of silk, “that that’s the only reason. . . . Is it ? ” 

Michael laughed outright, that infectious, ringing laugh 
of his ; and her laugher rippled back at him. 

Presently, growing grave, he said: “Well, Dick is free 
now. And so—all obstacles are removed.” 

She turned away from him before she answered “Yes,” 
staring out of the window. 

“ I should like to say-” 

“Yes ? ” she prompted, her face still turned from him. 

“That it has been a great happiness ... I mean to 
say that I have greatly valued your friendship. You see, 
you are the first woman pal I have ever had,” he explained 
boyishly. “I am not a woman’s man—not that sort. 
They frighten me.” 

“A great strong man like you, Mickey ! ” 

“But you don’t.” 

“Oh! ” 

“Not now. You are different. ... I used to think 
you were always laughing at me. I like it—now I know 
that we are pals. That’s what makes the difference. I 
wanted to tell you, and to thank you ...” 

Then he embarked—somewhat quickly for Michael—on 
other topics. He had said what was in his mind, though 
he had only said a small portion of all he felt, being merely 
Michael. A camaraderie of this nature had been a revela¬ 
tion to him, but he was not the man to open out his heart. 

A look of motherliness was in her eyes as she listened 
to the simple sincerity of the man, and a silence fell upon 
her. For once he had been able to have his share of the 
conversation. 

Presently he rose to go. 

“I’ve been wondering if now . . . That is, perhaps it 
would be better . . . What I mean is- 

“Better begin afresh,” she suggested.” 




MERELY MICHAEL 


229 


“Now that our partnership is ended . . . ” No, he 
could not bring himself to refer to her relationship with 
Dick, nor could he question her point-blank. 

She rose, letting slip her needlework, unheeded, to the 
ground. 

“But indeed it is not ended,” she murmured. “We 
haven't caught the murderer yet—for one thing. And 
people still suspect Dick. Ah no, Michael. ...” 

She put out her hand in that childlike, natural gesture 
so intimate and so compelling. She was very close to 
him, but he could not see her face, her eyes were on the 
ground. A small unruly curl almost brushed his cheek. 
The surpassing sweetness of a woman ! 

She looked up suddenly her breath on his cheek—almost 
it was a caress. . . . 

Michael moved away. It was a moment before he was 
master of himself again. In a desperate need of something 
to say, he asked : 

“When did you see Dick last ? Of course we will solve 
the mystery and clear his name. ” 

He avoided meeting her eyes. He need not have taken 
the trouble, for she too was looking away, her attention 
occupied with something in the garden. 

“About a day after the trial. Or two days—oh, I 
forget which ! ” 

She spoke a little breathlessly, and moved to the mantel¬ 
shelf, where she stood for an instant patting the stray 
curl into place, covertly peeping at the mirror, with her 
head on one side. Then she turned round on him in all 
her customary serenity. 

“To tell you the truth, Michael, I could not quite make 
him out. He was rather—well, curious in his manner. 
But he is like that at times. He is very complex for a 
man.” 

She stared thoughtfully, for a bit, into the fire. 


230 


MERELY MICHAEL 


“And then the awful time he has been through has 
affected him a great deal more than you would have 
imagined. He wants stirring out of himself, and we have 
got to do that for him. You and I between us, Michael. ” 

He did not seem to care, she went on to explain, if the 
murderer was found or not; and to care as little for any 
suspicion that might still rest upon himself. He had 
laughed as he left, and said : “Oh, it will all come right, 
I suppose ! ” 

“You know his curious way at times—as if it were a 
part of his nature to treat with humour all the gravest 
issues of a ridiculous universe, whether the person in¬ 
volved be himself or another ? Well, he was in that 
sort of mood, only it was a worse one than I have ever 
seen him in before. He simply did not seem to care. 
Then he left me, saying he would see what could be done 
about it when he came back.” 

“And was that all ? ” 

She did not reply at once. Then: “All that matters/' 
she said at last. 

So that was all she had to tell him ! 

“I think I understand,” he said slowly. “I know him 
so well. He is hiding his feelings—perhaps acting a part 
until he feels he has cleared his name completely. There 
is the devil of a pride at the bottom of Dick’s nature.” 

“Perhaps you are right.” 

“Of course I am right.” 

“ Anyhow, I am glad you think so. . . . It’s just like you 
Michael,” she added softly. 

“There never was a more chivalrous or honourable 
fellow than old Dick,” he continued earnestly. “You 
remember what happened at the trial ? How he spoke 
out when I faltered ? I shall never forget it.” 

And she answered in almost a whisper: “Nor shall I. 
Ah, I do understand.” 


MERELY MICHAEL 


281 


Then he told her of his meeting with Kelly, and how 
the little man seemed to be on the track of something big, 
and was resolved on keeping his own counsel until he 
had more tangible results to report. He added : 

“It will be a race between Kelly and myself. I am 
more determined than ever I was to clear Dick’s name.” 

A silence fell upon them. Michael was thinking what 
a good thing it was he had called at the vicarage. It 
showed him where the land lay with regard to these two 
—the dearest friends he had in the world. He was certain 
now of the cause of Dick’s holding back, and of his silence. 
Absurdly quixotic fellow that he was ! 

And she loved Dick, as anyone with half an eye could 
see ; even he, Michael, lacking as he was in his knowledge 
of a woman. So the one essential—and Michael always 
concentrated his energies on essentials—was the finding 
of the murderer. The avenging of old Jimmy’s death 
was incentive enough. But there was more than that 
now; there was the happiness of a woman at stake, and 
he vowed he would devote himself to this without rest 
until he had won a way for her and for Dick. It would 
absorb his time, keep him from thinking. 

Suddenly he was conscious of a dull pain at his heart. 
How long would it last ? Would it go on for ever ? 

For the first time in his life Michael was rather dreading 
his own thoughts. He was not the man to show his feelings, 
but Esmee must have been watching him closely when 
she said : 

“Why, Michael, how very formidable you look ! Just 
as you did when I first met you. ... You know, you 
have changed a lot since then.” 

“Then it is you who have changed me,” he answered 
simply. ‘ * And if I did look formidable, it was only because 
I was making up my mind to something.” 

Poor Michael! He had not yet learned that there are 


232 


MERELY MICHAEL 


things fore-ordained from the beginning, and inevitable 
as Fate itself. He was still young enough to fight against 
the stars in their courses. 

Her gaze caught his and held it. “ Yes ? ” she said, a 
slight change in her voice, her face grown a little pale. 
“And pray—what was that something? ” 

“What I have already told you: to clear Dick's 
name, and so—to help you both to happiness at last.” 

“Oh, Mickey,” she cried, a little catch in her voice, 
“you are rather splendid. ...” 

Then her colour returned, and she began to laugh to 
herself. But it was the softest laughter in all the world. 

After he had left, the needlework lay idly on her lap a 
long while. 


CHAPTER XXX 


Subconscious cerebration is a physical fact beyond dis¬ 
pute. Go to bed at night faced with a problem, or a name 
the memory of which has escaped you, and as often as 
not you will waken with the solution, either partial or in 
its entirety; or with the name you have searched your 
mind for the night before. It is much the same with in¬ 
tuition, only it is subliminal to a greater degree, and 
seemingly instantaneous, inasmuch as its effect is arrived 
at with less conscious effort. 

In the beginning I have held that Michael, in spite of a 
lack of imagination, had the power of intuition latent 
within him. And the time has come for a proof of what 
was then foreshadowed. 

It was perfectly correct what Esmee had said regarding 
Dick’s attitude subsequent to his release, as Michael was 
to discover for himself when the two friends met about a 
week after the events just narrated. 

Dick seemed perfectly content to pursue the line of 
least resistance, and to relinquish the solving of the 
mystery. It was difficult to understand his feeling in 
the matter, except on the surmise that prison had sapped 
some of the tougher fibres of his nature. Still, it did not 
fit in with any of Michael’s preconceived conceptions of 
Dick. 

“Iam fed up with England ! ’’ Dick announced, flinging 
himself into a chair and staring moodily into the fire. 

233 


234 


MERELY MICHAEL 


“What possible difference can it make to old Jimmy 
whether we do or do not slip the noose round the right 
man's neck ? It can't bring him to life again, and what 
remains concerns myself. What matter if people do 
suspect me ? I'm clearing out of the country. I don't 

mind. ” 

Michael stared at him, and the lines on his face deepened. 
He answered gravely: “Perhaps not. But possibly 
someone—some of your friends—mind for you." 

“If they are ashamed of me, then they are no friends of 

mine. That’s all there is to it." He lit a cigarette. 

Michael frowned. “Faugh ! ’’ he exclaimed with sudden 

heat. “I do hate these cigarettes you smoke. They 
remind me of—well, of things better forgotten." 

Dick, who was unaccustomed to an outburst from the 
imperturbable Michael, broke into a laugh which made 
him more like the Dick of old. Michael’s annoyance 
vanished, and he pursued evenly the subject that was 
uppermost in his mind. 

“But look here, old fellow, seriously now—do you 
think it is quite cricket ? " 

Dick, who had risen and was pacing restlessly up and 
down, came to a halt and said : “You funny, solemn old 
ass ! What do you mean ? ’’ 

“I’m not trying to butt in, but as your oldest friend-’* 

“Oh, get on with it ! ’’ 

“Well, then, I will. ... You told me of your hopes 
once with regard to Miss Favoril. Even if you don’t mind 
for yourself, it is possible that she may mind for you." 

“But I tell you I am clearing out of the country. I am 
fed up with England," Dick repeated, nervously irritable 
once more. 

“She—perhaps she is not." 

Dick stared at him in silence. Then : “ If a woman 
cares for a fellow, she is ready to sacrifice all that," he said. 



MERELY MICHAEL 


235 


“ I daresay, if it is necessary. But is it ? ** 

But to this Dick vouchsafed no reply. He threw his 
half-smoked cigarette into the fire, lit another, and com¬ 
menced again on his restless pacing of the room—up and 
down, jerking himself along in nervous lengthy strides. 

After making full allowances for the effects of his recent 
ordeal, the plain fact remained that little could be looked 
for from Dick in his present mood; and Michael was 
being slowly forced to the conclusion that upon himself 
would rest the task of saving Dick from himself, and that 
not for Dick’s sake alone. 

He knew Dick so well, all the gallantry of him, and his 
self-disregard ; but a further comprehension of his charac¬ 
ter was being forced upon him now. There was that 
splendid example of Dick in Court, speaking out at the 
risk of his life rather than imperilling the honour of a 
friend. The recollection, too, of his recklessness in the 
hunting-field, when he would risk unduly the life of a 
gallant horse, as well as his own. But much as he loved 
it, a horse was a possession and therefore subject to the 
same disregard as that to which he might subject himself. 

And so it would be with a woman, regarding her as a 
belonging, like many another man with a cave man’s 
instinct. There are * cave-women ’ and to spare in the 
world to-day ; once possessed, they may be labelled with 
the owner's ticket, and then taken for granted like any other 
piece of property which it is a felony to steal. But that is 
ownership ; not equality for either. Nor is it comradeship. 

Dick was not selfish. It would be a mistake to regard 
him as such ; his traits had been handed down to him 
from a dim age, and he was too easy-going in himself to 
think ahead. There was in his nature a kindliness and 
a depth of love for his belongings as well as for his friends, 
only from rather a different standpoint. He would never 
think of sacrificing a friend. 


236 


MERELY MICHAEL 


But Esmee, with all her independence and wit—Esmee 
a possession ! She was no cave-woman. The thought of 
it made Michael grit his teeth, and, for the first time in a 
lifelong friendship, he felt himself waver in his loyality for 
Dick. Soon the feeling passed, and the old sense of pro¬ 
tectiveness returned to him. Dick, he told himself, was 
not to be judged on a mere mood, nor was the fine gener¬ 
osity of the man to be forgotten. 

Dick had been sharing Michael’s chambers during the 
few days he was spending in town preparatory to his 
declared intention of an early departure from England. 
There Bailey joined them one night, and the three friends 
enjoyed a quiet little dinner at home. 

Though still subject to moods, Dick had seemed to be 
regaining his old happy-go-lucky attitude towards life. 
But something must have happened during the day to 
upset him, for a gloomier silence than ever had descended 
on him, interrupted by a few remarks hinting at a bitterness 
foreign to his nature. As suddenly all that would change, 
and he would revert to a boisterous gaiety. Michael kept 
watching him narrowly, and so did Bailey. And it was to 
Bailey Dick turned : 

" Where does one go when one wants to clear out of 
England ? You ought to be able to help a fellow, old 
Bailey, who have travelled up and down the face of the 
globe.” 

Bailey hesitated a moment, glancing at Michael. “ You 
mean that, Dick ? That you want to clear out of England 
—you, who have everything you want, and all that money 
can buy ? ” 

A veiled cynicism played about Bailey’s lips as he said 
this. He had a curious contempt for money, or at least 
for the uneven distribution of wealth ; to that extent there 
was something of the fanatic about the man. Michael 


MERELY MICHAEL 


237 


had always expected to find him developing into a syn¬ 
dicalist after leaving Oxford, instead of which Bailey 
had contented himself with exploring unusual corners of 
the earth. 

Dick answered with a mirthless laugh: “Everything 
you want, and all that money can buy, are not always 
one and the same tiling, Bailey. . . . Yes, of course, I 
mean what I say,” he added irritably. 

“In that case—what about East Africa? I am going 
there shortly. You can come along, if you like.” 

Aware as he was of Dick’s proposals, Michael was not 
prepared for the eagerness with which the suggestion was 
received. Hitherto he had attributed it largely to a 
mood; but now, all Dick asked was : How soon could 
they start ? 

Bailey drew a small gold cigarette-case from his pocket 

“In about two months’ time,” he replied, tapping his. 
cigarette on the box, then lighting it. There was a dreamy 
look on his face as he leaned back to watch the smoke, 
which he exhaled from his thin nostrils, curl in spirals 
above him and vanish. 

“Then I’m your man. I will knock about France and 
Italy for a bit in the meantime.” 

“But ...” Michael stopped. There was that in 
Dick’s eyes which forbade further questioning, though 
Michael was utterly at a loss to account for the reason of 
it, and was resolved to investigate later, after Bailey had 
gone. However, the opportunity never arose, and the 
answer to the riddle was destined to come from other lips 
than Dick's. 

After dinner they sat round the fire, smoking, the 
talk ranging many years back as Dick and Bailey recalled 
old school events, while Michael joined in now and then. 

But Michael withdrew more and more from the con¬ 
versation, and as he sat pulling at his pipe and listening 


288 


MERELY MICHAEL 


fitfully to the other two, he gradually became more ab¬ 
sorbed in his own thoughts and conscious of nothing save 
this striving after a mystery, the solution of which had 
become so vital to the happiness of the two friends whom 
he loved above all others. 

It was a curious state into which he had subsided, that 
state of concentration when the subconscious mind seems 
to rise to the surface, and with it all the accumulated 
perceptions of the past clamouring for recognition. And 
so an idea was pounding away in his brain, and he kept 
trying to recollect the association which gave rise to it. 
If only it would come to him ! . . . 

He turned his mind to other things, joining again in 
conversation with the others, and giving his brain a rest 
from its wandering. 

It was then that it came, like a blinding flash of light 
out of the darkness. But so sheer an impossibility that it 
left him aghast. So far-fetched, so wildly improbable 
—and yet an idea that would not go now that it had found 
a lodgment in his mind. He shrunk from reasoning his 
way to so profoundly improbable a conclusion ; but reason 
was being turned aside for once and wild hazard taking 
its place. 

At first the thought of consulting Kelly occurred to him, 
but this he thrust from him. He, too, would keep his 
own counsels, not even taking Esmee into his confidence 
and involving her in such a phantasy as this. 

There came a lull in the conversation. He filled the 
glasses of his friends before resorting to a good stiff peg 
himself. But his mind was now made up. He was to 
act without reasoning, and did not stop to think, for fear 
that common sense should step in and so divert him from 
his purpose. He was a hard-headed, clear-seeing man, 
but intuition had at last got a grip of him, and he was 
yielding himself up to the thousandth chance. 


MERELY MICHAEL 


289 


His pipe had burned out. He sat down and very 
thoughtfully filled another, his gaze fixed on the dying 
embers of the fire. Suddenly he began. 

"I don’t know if you recollect old Jimmy’s words on 
the night of the murder ? ” 

A gloom settled down on the room as he said tin's. Dick 
glanced at him sharply, then away, knitting his brows. 

"Oh course, Jimmy joked about the mystery of the old 
house as he joked about most things. But we said we 
would follow on. . . . You remember, Dick, and you, 
Bailey ? ” 

Bailey passed his hand over his face once or twice. 
Then he said : "Haven’t we done all we could ? ” 

"That’s just it. We have tried everything else ; and 
only this remains. I know it sounds childish, but we 
promised. Didn’t we ? Now,’’ said Michael, not waiting 
for further comment, "you recollect, here was the chair 
in the alcove." Saying which, he drew from his pocket 
an envelope, on the back of which he proceeded to make a 
rough sketch. 

Bailey, looking on in silence, began his fidgeting; 
before he had been perfectly calm. Michael looked up 
quickly when he had finished his sketch. 

" I am only reminding you of this because . . . because 
each one of us in turn is going to spend a night in that 
room. And alone, as we said we would; seated in the 
chair in exactly the same position as it was that night, a 
revolver in the niche by the alcove. The only question 
is, who is going to be the first to do it ? 

The sound of an indrawn sigh, followed by a silence so 
intense that almost the beating of man’s heart became 
audible. 

"But why ? I know we said we would do it, but it was 
only in jest. What earthly good could it do now ? ” It 
was Dick who had interposed. 


240 


MERELY MICHAEL 


“ Because we promised/' 

‘* And why sit up alone ? ’' 

“For the same reason—we promised/' Michael repeated 
doggedly. “Oh, I am not mad ! I don't suggest it was 
any supernatural agency which caused Jimmy’s death. All 
the same, it wasn't natural for him to sit down and de¬ 
liberately do himself to death. You know that, Dick. 
You, too, Bailey. There was something else to it, and 
it has got to be discovered/' 

Dick tried to reason him out of it, but to no purpose. 
Bailey’s lips were working nervously. He said not a 
word, however, but stood staring into the fire as though 
fascinated with what he saw there. 

If neither of the others agreed to the proposal, Michael 
announced, then there was nothing more to be said about 
it. He would take on the job by himself. 

Dick looked puzzled. “Not a bit like you, Michael, 
to get these fancies. It’s just your old cussedness that 
makes you stick to it once you’re thwarted. Nothing 
more.’’ 

Bailey turned at last from the fire. “So you’ve been 
converted, Frayne,’’ he said, a thin sneer on his lips. 
“Well, I told you where the mystery lay from the be¬ 
ginning. It is a pity you have not backed me up before. 

. . . Becoming fanciful at last, are you ? " 

“Yes, I am.’’ 

“Do you admit to me, then, that the old hall has an 
influence which is not normal ? ’’ 

“Psychic phenomena are not really in my line, as you 
know. But yes,’’ Michael admitted slowly, “I suppose I 
am beginning to be converted.’’ 

“Yes,’’ echoed Bailey, a dreamy, rapt expression 
coming into his face, “there is the borderland. I have 
crossed it myself, once or twice. . . . There is something 
abnormal about that room. Looking into its shadows. 


MERELY MICHAEL 


241 


I have had the odd impression that something was forming 
there before my very eyes. You cannot keep your mind 
from it. Once you’ve experienced it, it draws you like a 
magnet.” 

Bailey spoke as though he were communing with himself 
all the time. 

Michael nodded. For a strong-nerved man, his reply 
was a strange one : “That is it. Something forming in 
the shadows which makes a man turn faint with the evil 
of it.” 

Bailey assented, brushing his hand across his eyes as 
though wakening from a dream. “One can never get 
away from it—never forget,” he said. 

Dick looked from one to the other and tried to laugh it off. 
“If you fellows take to this sort of thing seriously,” he 
said, “you’ll go off your heads, both of you. You, Michael, 
of all people ! What has come to you ? ” 

But Michael was quite immovable to ridicule. He 
repeated : “We’ve got to follow on, one after the other, 
until we pluck the heart out of this mystery. There is 
no rest for us until we do. 

Another silence ensued. It was broken again by Bailey : 

“Well, if you put it that way, Frayne, the only question 
is—who is to be the first? ” 

“It’s all damn nonsense ! But if we are mad enough 
for that, then it’s up to me,” Dick broke in. 

“No, we shall toss for it,” Michael said this so resolutely, 
glancing from one to the other, that neither contradicted 
him. Bailey’s face was very pale, and there was a curiously 
mottled look about it; Dick’s was wryly smiling. 

Michael pulled a handful of small coins from his pocket 
and selected one. “Odd man out. Do you fellows agree 
to that ? If not, then I go alone.” 

Dick watched him a moment more. “Let us toss, 
then,” he said after a pause. 

Q 


242 


MERELY MICHAEL 


Bailey rose from his chair. He stood, pale and tense, 
with every nerve in his body on the twitter. “Very 
well,” he agreed. 

The three coins went spinning into the air. 

“Heads ! ” Dick was the first to show his hand. 

But Bailey uncovered his slowly; his teeth were so 
tightly clenched as he did so that the strained muscles of 
his face quivered, and the jaw stood out sharply from 
the skin. He darted a look at the coin he held in his hand, 
then breathed in almost a whisper : 

“Heads ! ” 

“Tails ! ” said Michael a moment after. 

A dead silence, then a sigh smothered in its birth. 

“You, Frayne,” cried Bailey, his eyes glittering. “My 
God, have you no feeling about it ? 

“It is nothing,” Michael answered in firm, level tones. 
He very coolly picked up a desk dairy and turned over 
the pages. “Let me see, I can manage it best on Thurs¬ 
day. There will be a moon, I see, and I’ll chance it being 
a clear night. I shall start at ten and sit up till the morning. 
The conservatory will be open—everything just as it was 
on the night of the murder.” 

Dick came up to him, laying a hand on his friend’s 
shoulder. “No, old fellow,” he urged, “it’s not worth it. 
There can be no danger. But God knows there has been 
tragedy enough in the old house without tempting it 
further. Its associations are enough to turn a man’s 
mind. . . . Don’t you do it, Michael. Or, if you must, 
then let me come too.” 

“You don’t understand, Dick. It seems mad of me, 
I daresay. But I’ve thought of it and thought, until, at 
times, I can almost hear old Jimmy’s voice, ‘You’ll follow 
on, eh ? ’ . . . Well, I am going to follow on.” 

Dick turned on his heel and walked slowly to the fire¬ 
place, and a flame leaped up, dyeing his hand a faint red 


MERELY MICHAEL 


243 


As he turned again there was an odd expression on his 
face. He sighed. 

"I know why you are doing it. But you also—do not 
understand,” he observed. 

"Anyhow, I’ve won the toss,” said Michael, not under¬ 
standing the other’s meaning till later. "And I am going 
alone. Mind you don’t interfere with me, either of you.” 

"Very well, have your way of it. But,” and Bailey 
shook his head grimly, "you have never made a study of 
these things, Frayne. I think you will have to leave it 
to me yet.” 


CHAPTER XXXI 


Thus it happened that Michael found himself once more 
in Marley Pryors, on his way to the fatal house, alone. 

With the exception of Dick and Bailey, no one knew 
of the vigil he had imposed upon himself. It had been 
agreed among them that the matter should be kept a 
rigid secret, this being the course which Michael had 
insisted on, who was journalist enough to fear the prom¬ 
inence it might otherwise receive in the newspapers still 
anxious to pander to the unsated curiosity of the public 
with regard to the mystery which had occupied its attention 
for months past. 

He motored down on the date fixed, arriving as dusk 
was drawing in, and taking up his quarters at the Marley 
Arms. It was a mild February evening, sweet with the 
incredible fragrance of spring. He opened his window 
and leaned out, drawing in great mouthfuls of air ; it was 
good, this quiet clean peace of the country, after the racket 
and smoke of a great city. 

The birds were already stirring about their business. 
A blackbird opened its golden beak to sing ; but it took 
fright at something, and sped, shrieking from its perch 
on a great chestnut tree into the heart of a hawthorn 
hedge, there to lose itself. 

Across the village green the cottages were beginning to 
light up, one by one. The spire of an ancient church 
dreamed in the haze, and grew dim. Beyond, and nestling 
in the shadows of the trees, lay the darker mass of the 


MERELY MICHAEL 


24*5 


vicarage. And as he gazed, a light sprang up in one of 
its windows ; then another. Michael wondered if Esmee 
were at home, and he smiled to himself—a little sadly, it 
may be—as he thought of the secret laughter in a girl’s 
eyes, in the days that were gone. Presently, when it grew 
quite dark, he would go for a stroll, where there should be 
no chance of meeting her. After that, dinner; and 
then . . . 

But in the meantime, he was content to stand at the 
open window, in the twilight, leaving the rest to chance, 
which he felt was taking a hand in his affairs of the moment. 
He refilled his pipe, ramming the tobacco well into place, 
and with a critical nicety, before lighting it. 

“Michael ! ” 

The lighted match was arrested in mid-air. The flame 
ran down the wood and burned his fingers ; he knew then 
he was not asleep. 

“Mickey!” More insistent this time. Much. 

And there, her eyes screwed up into a smiling surprise 
and face upturned, stood no less a person than little Esmee 
herself, returning from a walk with Bill, the fox-terrier. 

“ Come down at once. What are you doing here ? ” 

“All right. Coming.” 

“Damn! ” he muttered to himself; and repeated it 
with emphasis as he clattered down the old inn staircase, 
This was greatly complicating matters ; he would have 
to render some account of himself now T . Albeit, the frown 
was not having it all its own way as he went out to meet 
her. 

She slid her arm through his in the dark, as they walked 
on, and said: “What’s brought you here? And why 
didn’t you tell me you were coming ? ” 

“Nothing much to tell. The fact is, I came down—just 
to see how everything was going on.” He was not finding 
the explanation an easy one.” 


246 


MERELY MICHAEL 


“Really!” The smile had begun in her eyes. “I 
thought you had come down to see—dad, perhaps. You 
know you made an impression on him with your remarks 
on frescoes—or was it mosaics ? 

The smile had reached her lips now—Michael was 
infecting her, as often before, with the humour of talking 
nonsense. 

“He often refers to your—well, original theories, he 
calls them, and wishes to question you further. And 
yet,” she said, pouting a little, “it was 'things ' you came 
to see, after all. Dad will be disappointed ! . . . Never 
mind, you shall come to us for dinner, anyhow. 

“Iam afraid-” 

“I refuse to accept that,” she broke in. 

Michael smiled grimly. He was sorry, he murmured ; 
some other time. . . . But she would have none of it. 

As they reached the gate he turned round on her, and said 
very firmly : “Look here, Esmee, you must be a pal, and 
excuse me to-night. I have got an—appointment; it 
may turn out to be important.” 

“More of the mystery? How lovely ! ” She caught 
hold of the lapel of his coat, giving excited little tugs at it, 
as she spoke. “Tell me just everything. At once, 
Michael.” 

And he passed after her into the starlit garden. 

She came to a standstill at a bend in the avenue. Bill, 
the dog, looked up at her, sighed, and sat down. The 
interruption was not to his liking ; he did not understand 
it. Besides, it was getting on for dinner-time ; he wanted 
to be back for that. But Esmee was not considering his 
feelings. 

“Now tell me. . . . Tell me.” 

He faced her, knitting his brows. Now that he was 
going to do her a service, it seemed as if he had been 
waiting a long time for this. The moment had come ; 



MERELY MICHAEL 


247 


beyond that was the blank he dared not yet contemplate. 
And all he could say was : 

* ‘ I shall tell you to-morrow. * ’ 

Her hands trembled a little, then fell to her side. “ You 
don’t trust me—after all we have been through together ? 
Oh, Mickey, you don’t trust me ! ” 

“It is not so. You know that very well.’’ He spoke 
gruffly ; it was being so much more difficult than he had 
found anything in his life before. 

“Then why won’t you tell me what it is ? I might be 
able to help. ...” 

It was a wistful appeal for recognition of their partner¬ 
ship. That, and nothing more, he assured himself. But 
he stared resolutely over her head, as he answered : 

“Not now.’’ 

“Me, Mickey? Not tell me?” And the softness of 
her voice fell on him as a caress. 

She remained perfectly still for a moment, as if she did not 
mean to move or to speak again. She hurt him with her near¬ 
ness. The breeze blew cool against his cheek. It fluttered 
her skirt against him. He started back ; moved aside. . . . 

“ What is it ? ’’ she questioned in a low voice. 

“Nothing.’’ 

She eyed him curiously, critically; then a look of 
resolution swept into her face. “I am coming with you. 
Do you hear me? ” and she caught at his arm, as if to 
shake him out of his mute immobility. “I am coming 
with you. There is danger, I know—and so I am coming. ” 

Still he refused to meet her gaze. “It is impossible.’’ 
He spoke at last, dully. 

“How do we know what is possible—you and I ? she 
breathed. “ Must we always fight against the inevitable ? 

Those violet eyes clinging to his had a supplication in 
them. ‘Ah, we cannot!’ they entreated as no words 
could have done. 


248 


MERELY MICHAEL 


The night was vibrant with her whisper. She waited, 
turning her head away into the darkness. A stillness fell 
between them. 

Then he looked at her swiftly, and in a sort of trembling 
wonder; and she met his gaze. How differently she 
looked, he thought. A subtle change had come over her face 
it seemed to have borrowed some of the soft mystery of the 
night; the violet eyes had grown inscrutable as the stars. 

He knew then that her love was for him. The knowledge 
of it came as a blinding flash : it stunned him. But with 
a tremendous effort of will he forced the situation back 
upon itself, and said, speaking harshly: 

“There is no danger. I do not want to have anyone 
with me.” And he added : “That is all.” 

‘It will be easier thus/ he thought. But—at what a 
cost! A bleak look had come into his face as he turned 
away from her. 

She shrank back, regarding him with lowered lids as if 
she wondered who he was—this sudden stranger. A tinge 
of red had crept into her face. 

“You mean that ? ” she asked in a small choked voice. 
She waited, but he could not trust himself to speak. 

“You do not want me, then ? ... Is that it ? ”* 

She bit her lips to keep back the tears. She sw r ayed 
the way he had seen men do when they w r ere w r ounded. 
Then pride came to her rescue. She must go on brightty 
smiling ; he must never know . . . 

“I—cannot,” he faltered. He spoke despairingly ; the 
sacrifice was a far bigger thing than he had ever imagined. 
And listening, she began to understand. 

The vicarage w r as wTapped in sombre shadow ; but the 
church spire, thrusting upwards, was edged in silver. The 
moon rose further, and wrought its magic tracery on the 
trees. Higher still, it flooded the vicarage roof with a 
sort of halo ; suddenly it fell full upon the girl's face. It 


MERELY MICHAEL 


249 


revealed the startling pallor of her cheeks, the glimmer of 
unshed tears; and somehow she looked so small, and 
tired and lonely. 

Several times her lips moved in an attempt to speak. 

“Ah,” she said at last, in a whisper, “we are neither of 
us so small as to hide from each other the—the big thing.” 

She slipped her hand into his, where it lay very warm 
and soft within his grasp, with a queer little fluttering of 
her fingers. 

“I've found the secret of your—your air of conquest 
at last,” she continued bravely. “It is that you are so 
completely master of yourself. ... I too must learn it, 
mustn’t I, Mickey? ” 

“There is Dick,” he answered simply; “he has come 
through so much already.” 

“Yes, there is Dick,” she breathed, and he saw the 
colour fade from her cheeks. “I—I understand it better 
now. You have shown me the way.” 

And for a point of honour, a man and a woman were 
condemning each other to eat their hearts out, and none 
would be any the better or any the happier for it. 

“But ah ! it was all my fault. You must never blame 
yourself—never ! I could never bear that. I thought . . . 
You see, no woman had ever come into your life before. 
I tried to show you— ” she gave a wry little smile ; “that 
was in the beginning. But it is you who have conquered 
me in the end, Michael. And now—it is you have shown 
me the way.” 

She drew a pace closer to him. 

“Michael! ...” she whispered in that golden voice 
that was a mystery of softness. 

She clung to him for a moment, passionately sobbing. 
All at once she was her calm, sweet self again. 

“Now go. . . . ” She turned swiftly and glided from 
him in the darkness. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


Her going was followed by a profound sadness that filled 
the whole universe. Michael stood like a graven statue, 
staring up the dim avenue. 

She had vanished like a dream that goes with waking. 
Another light had sprung up in the vicarage ; it glittered 
through the trees and mocked him. He was trying to 
remember her features, to imprint each one of them 
ineffaceably on his mind as of one whom he should never 
see again. But the years flew past him, as it seemed, 
leaving him only with that vague image which Time 
bequeaths. And the sole memory left him was that of 
a pale, sweet face held up to him under the stars, and the 
pools of wistful shadows which were her eyes. 

Once he had almost called out to her ; once the instinct 
to run up the drive after her had almost overcome him. 
Before it was too late. . . . 

Too late for what ? It was this which pulled him up 
to face the truth of it. No, it would not do, and there 
was an end to it. He had to stick it out. There was the 
plain task before him to which he had set himself; and 
there was his plain loyalty to Dick. Better the friendship 
to fade which could be no more a friendship. Soon he 
would pass, a dim regretted wraith, from her life. 

Yes, it was all quite plain before him now. Life was a 
simple enough thing, if only people took it so : certain 
definite laws of cause and effect to be recognised and 
submitted to, for happiness to come of it in the end, and 
the disregard of which could end only in remorse. There 
was a single-mindedness about Michael above the ordinary : 

250 


MERELY MICHAEL 


251 


no hesitation over issues, as in the case of a more complex 
nature. 

He was quite unconscious of any self-sacrifice in the 
matter; in fact, such an idea never entered his head. 
Honour forbade that he should take advantage of a friend’s 
absence—Dick’s, of all people. It was a thought which 
simply did not find a lodgment in his brain. 

As he roused himself and set out to retrace his steps, 
a spirit of exultation came upon him. He had given up 
so much, there was nothing left for Fate to rob him of. 

Once he halted and looked back. The moon floated 
high over the garden now—her garden. Little fleecy 
clouds trailed their laughing shadows over the tree-fringed 
lawns. All so ineffably peaceful and secure. 

A moment he stood, drinking it all in and trying to 
gather to himself something of the night’s great calm. 
Then he turned sharply, and went his way. 

Dinner over, Michael completed his few simple prepara¬ 
tions. Revolver, lantern, flask and a small hand mirror; 
these, and a warm overcoat, for the night would be cold 
in the dank old hall without a fire. Then he lit his pipe, 
and was ready. 

How sweet and wholesome the village looked in the 
moonlight as he set out on foot ! And the lights of the 
vicarage—he looked only once in that direction, then 
kept his gaze fixed resolutely before him. 

As he walked over the well-remembered road, his mind 
was besieged by questions. With the thought of the old 
house looming up before him, it seemed sane enough now 
to regard his theory as a possibility ; it was only in the 
cold light of day that it seemed too purely fanciful for 
serious consideration. He had wakened in the morning 
with the assurance that it was beyond the limits of the 
conceivable, but as night fell that same credulity crept 


252 


MERELY MICHAEL 


back to him again. What should the morning’s view 
prove the correct one ? But committed to action, as he 
was now, he was man enough to thrust all thoughts of 
failure from him. 

He did not exaggerate the horror of what he had set 
himself to do ; neither did he minimise it. It was a 
‘simple service simply given ’ for those whom he accounted 
of more worth than himself in the scheme of things. Yet 
he felt himself walking out to meet the shadow of a dream 
which had been hanging over him a long time. 

A soft white cloud was creeping over the sky, and a 
dim star showed here and there. Michael had been 
walking for upwards of half an hour when he came to the 
lodge gates, and passed within the gloom of the avenue. 
A chill wind was blowing in his face as he advanced. It 
died down as suddenly as it had risen, and everything 
grew deadly still; a footfall made no sound on the old 
neglected roadway, overgrown with grass and weeds as it 
was. He whistled to himself to keep up his spirits, but 
somehow it only served to accentuate the unnatural 
silence of the night. 

Presently the old house towered its dark mass in front 
of him, effaced in the mystery of the night, yet stretching 
out a deadly hand to gather in. The ‘ Spider’s Web * 
Esmee had aptly called it. As he emerged from the 
avenue to the terrace in front, the cloud had rolled slowly 
from the face of the moon, releasing its flood of cold, 
clear light upon the building. 

He hesitated—but only for a moment, like a man 
standing on the brink of his destiny. He had the feeling 
that here at last and now were to be learned things he 
was destined to know from the commencement. It was 
the hour of his fate ; he was capable of contemplating it 
with a calm audacity, confident as ever in his own strength 
to grapple with circumstance. The issue when it id 


MERELY MICHAEL 


253 


come would be plain enough; he could wait, and was 
content to leave it at that. Imaginative he certainly was 
not, but there was a sort of veiled fatalism such as exists 
in men of a like simplicity of character. 

A moment he stood, then crossed the pool of moon¬ 
light ; round by the old wing, through the conservatory 
door, which he left ajar, and into the house of limitless 
shadows, where the world of hope seemed dead. Thus he 
entered upon a night vigil, one which he was destined never 
to forget. 

Michael opened the great bay window and looked out. 
How noiseless the world was ; all at rest save for the few 
white clouds which drifted over the sky, throwing their 
ghostly shadows about the lawns and terraces as they 
flitted across the moon. 

As his eye travelled down the long black vault of the 
avenue—the road by which he should pass out when his 
work was done—he gave a little involuntary shiver. 
Suddenly he turned to cast an anxious, peering glance 
behind him. Nothing there ; but in spite of all his native 
calm, the stillness and the black decay of his surroundings 
were working on him. It was as if his resolution was being 
snapped slowly away from him, and his sense of mastery 
going from him. 

And always that hush over everything. From outside 
came the occasional cry of a night-bird. Somewhere in 
the distance a dog bayed—remote, unearthly sound here, 
and in the waning moonlight; sounds which made the 
silence of the house more vibrant than before. Far off 
he could hear, faintly borne on the breeze, the tones of 
the old parish clock tolling the hour. Ten o’clock struck, 
then the quarter. 

He heard it strike the half-hour before he closed the 
window, letting the old mouldering curtains fall back into 


254 


MERELY MICHAEL 


place again, but leaving room enough for the moon to 
enter as it might. 

He stifled a sigh as he turned from the window. * You 
don’t want me, then ? ’ It was the echo of that whisper 
which kept stabbing into Michael’s heart now. Want 
her ! He uttered a sad little laugh at the greatness of his 
need. How white her face had looked in the starlight! 
And then her eyes—was the suffering in them still ? She 
was such a child, the pain would cease, he thought. But 
for him—well, there was to-night. . . . 

And to-night was come to solve it all; odd how the 
thought of that kept haunting him. So he crushed the 
memory of a woman from him ; and as he moved away 
from the window the gloom of the hall settled about him 
once more. 

He stole back to the alcove, walking on tip-toe as though 
in fear of recalling a shadowy something from its grave. 
The ghost of a smile came into his face as he moved the 
fatal chair silently into position and sat himself down 
upon it. He stood the small lantern on the ground beside 
him, shutting down the shade which masked its light; 
then he drew the revolver from his pocket, and set it on 
his knee, ready for instant use. At last his preparations 
were completed. Nothing to do now but wait, and he 
settled down to it in the silent darkness. 

Once or twice he whipped round and peered into the 
thickening gloom, feeling as it were, his every movement 
spied upon by unseen eyes. He was conscious of a strained 
alertness, listening for unheard sounds, and always on the 
outlook for shadowy movements which never took on 
definite shape or form. The intense silence was full of 
hidden life; the panelling creaked; curtains whispered 
one to the other. 

For once he was beset by strange imaginings—un¬ 
defined, absurd, inexplicable. Something was mounting 


MERELY MICHAEL 


255 


the stairs. Now it was in the room, stealing up behind 
him. Strong-nerved as he was, he became slowly over¬ 
strung. Once he jumped up, against his will, to dart 
round the corner of the alcove and pull the portiere aside. 
But the passage was empty; nothing there save the 
darkness—but a darkness so full of expectancy as to 
become a veil for some unthinkable horror. 

Back to his chair, ashamed of his passing weakness 
and resolved not to move again until the mystery of the 
night should be accomplished. Time wore on. He looked 
at his watch and found it was eleven o’clock. Hours 
later, it seemed, when he looked again it was a quarter 
past. But his quietude was returning to him, a sort of 
frozen, deadly calm. 

The night was growing colder. He wrapped his coat 
more closely about him and waited. 

Of a sudden, a faint breath of air stole into the room, 
a cold, dank air as from a vault; a moment, and it was 
gone. For a time, nothing. Was it fancy, or was some¬ 
thing stealing up the stairs ? . . . 

Ah ! There it was again—the sound that turned his 
blood to ice, the same thudding softness he had listened to 
before with Kelly. And with that, his sense of hearing 
became abnormally acute. 

Followed a muffled, ghastly tread—almost inaudible— 
mounting the stair, pausing at every step. Then mounting 
up. Up ; and further, up. . . . 

Michael’s breathing quickened; he was aware of the 
heavy pounding of his heart. His hand slipped round 
the revolver, the index finger quivering a little as it felt 
for the trigger-guard. He sat quite still in the moonlight, 
except for the hand which manipulated the small mirror 
in front of him, twisting it about at different angles in 
order to catch a glimpse of any movement from behind. 
But the old hall was wrapped again in its ghastly silence. 


256 


MERELY MICHAEL 


A moment passed ; two. The longing to call out became 
intense. It grew intolerable. 

He had known the fear men felt in France. But for the 
first time in his life he sensed non-physical fear—that 
terror of the intangible which is buried deep in a man’s 
being from the dim beginnings of time. He took a fresh 
grip of things as he waited, arguing with himself in his 
nesolute way that it was only a physical agency which 
menaced him, and of that he knew no fean. But there was 
always that great ‘perhaps’ to slowly wear away his strength 
so that he could endure the silence not a moment more. 

“Who’s there? ”... As in a dream, he seemed to 
hear the whispered echo of his own despair, though not a 
word had passed his lips. 

A pause ; then a faint scratching sound, followed by a 
tremor of the curtain. 

The time had come. Action, with all its simplicity, was 
upon him; and with it, too, a firm control of himself. 
Softly, very, very gently, he drew his revolver until it 
pointed at the corner of the alcove, to the height of a 
man’s chest. His eyes grew fierce and ready. His muscles 
tightened as he sat, tense as an animal about to spring. 
The unknown terror was forgotten in the surging joy at the 
feel of his strength. There was but one question now. . . . 

But before he could rise, the answer had come, leaping 
out at him from the shadows. Something was coiling 
about him, and, tightening, had pinioned him to the chair. 
The revolver, knocked from his hands, fell with a clatter 
on the stone floor. The rope, drawn tighter, was biting 
into the muscles of his arms and rendering them useless. 
Straining at his bonds and getting his head half round, 
he saw a hand suddenly flash from the darkness into the 
moonlight, where it floated, clenching its fingers in mid-air. 

Next moment a shadow rounded the corner of the wall, 
moving silently into view. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


As has already been stated, Kelly had a perfect belief in 
the value of trifles. Once he had eliminated all the 
major possibilities of a case and was left only with the 
minor, be it never such a trifle, he would concentrate all 
his energies on that with dogged cheerfulness. 

He was a man, too, who extracted humour from the 
lesser things of life to a greater degree than most. But 
touch him on the point of professional procedure, and he 
rolled up into a ball like a hedgehog, with all its prickles 
out. 

The mystery of Marley baffled him. He had always the 
feehng that the clue lay well within his reach if only he 
could grasp it, but it kept eluding him in a way that made 
the little man grind his teeth and persevere. Then, too, 
while he had lost his rancour, his professional pride still 
smarted when he reflected on the later dealings he had 
had with Frayne ; and so, with a stiff upper lip and a silent 
tongue in his head, he kept to the task before him with a 
great tenacity. 

He had set a watch on Miss di Conti's lodging-place, 
whence certain clues had radiated—suggestions, rather, 
which he had followed up with meticulous care; and all 
of these had led him nowhere. But still he watched. 

Then suddenly the girl had left her rooms in Bright 
Street; and when he had applied to the fat Neapolitan for 
information, he had been met with a profession of ignorance 
which had fast developed into surliness on a further 
pursuance of his questions—questions thrown out at a 

257 R 


258 


MERELY MICHAEL 


venture by Kelly, who knew very well whither the girl 
had transferred her quarters, a close watch having been 
maintained on her movements. The Italian’s answers 
had confirmed Kelly in his suspicions, and the fact that 
the truth was now being concealed was a clear indication 
that the Italian had been primed to it. But to what end ? 
And by whom ? There, again, was the blank wall which 
arrested further progress. Still, it encouraged the detec¬ 
tive—or, as he would have you call him, the investigator— 
to devote his time and thought to the case ; and in these 
days he was seldom seen outside his haunts in Soho. 

M’Kerrel dropped in one night at a certain Florentine 
restaurant and found Kelly at dinner. 

“What! ” he queried. “All alone, Kelly ? ’’ And he 
sat down in the vacant chair. 

Kelly nodded and grinned, his mouth full of spaghetti 
and tomato sauce, a large plateful of which he was con¬ 
suming with remarkable despatch. But all his movements 
exceeded the time-limit, of the brain as of the body ; 
and for a small man his capacity was equally noteworthy. 

There was a bulky leather note-book, black and shining 
with age, on the table beside him as he ate, which he 
consulted or on which he jotted notes in a microscopic hand 
between the courses. He was not a man to waste a 
moment of the day. 

So as M’Kerrel caught sight of the note-book, his rugged 
old face creased into a smile. “Aye ! ’’ he said. “And 
you’ll still be struggling with the Marley case ? ” 

“Yep. Just been going over a few notes on the subject. ** 

The waiter having come to remove the last dish on 
which Kelly had been engaged, the note-book was opened 
for M’Kerrel’s inspection, disclosing certain hand sketches 
made in Marley House, each one of them a model of neat¬ 
ness and precision. 


MERELY MICHAEL 


259 


“ Here, Mac, are the three bedrooms,” he explained, 
further demonstrating their juxtaposition with the aid of 
the coffee spoon and salt-cellar. “ Frayne occupied this 
one ; Bailey the next to him ; while the one on the other 
side of the passage was occupied by young Mar ley. The 
windows of the first two open on to a sort of balcony which 
runs round the gable of the house to the old wing, where 
it ends abruptly. . . . You’ll remember it ? ” 

M’Kerrel nodded his head in confirmation and waited 
for the other to continue. 

“ Well,” said Kelly, “ the drop from the balcony to the 
ground is some twenty feet, more or less ; but there is a 
lot of old ivy growing up the wall there. Did you ever 
notice anything about that ivy, M’Kerrel ? ” 

M’Kerrel peered at him from under his white, bushy 
eyebrows. “ No,” he said, “ I did not.” 

“ Well, I did. There was a small strand loosened from 
the wall.” 

“There had been a gale the night before. Do you 
mean- ? ” 

“ I mean that it may have been the storm ; or, again, it 
may not. I’ve been thinking a lot about it lately, and 
one of these days I’ll be taking a run down to have a 
closer look at things for myself—without a word of it, 
either, to Mr. Michael Frayne.” 

“ Surely—•— ” the other broke in, and was again 
interrupted. 

“ No, it’s not him I'm thinking of.” 

“ Who else, then ? ” 

Kelly shot a keen glance at his old friend. “I’m keeping 
my mouth tight shut these days,” he observed, shutting 
up his pocket-book with a snap and replacing it in his 
pocket. 

M'Kerrel took a pull on his cigar, and said: “It has 
always seemed to me that the crime is one of two kinds : 




260 


MERELY MICHAEL 

either it is the carefully co-ordinated and elaborated 
cunning of a group of criminals, or it is the act of a maniac. 
There is the same devilish ingenuity about either, as a 
rule.” 

For a while after that they chatted of other things, 
mostly "shop.’ M’Kerrel had been talking of a matter 
which was of particular interest to Kelly, when, suddenly, 
he became aware that his friend’s attention w r as directed 
on something at the further end of the room ; and following 
the direction of his gaze, he noticed a very pretty dark 
girl, with a Madonna-like face and plainly dressed, followed 
by a tall slim man whose clothes suggested Savile Row. 
The man’s back was turned to them, but something about 
the figure was vaguely familiar to M’Kerrel’s trained eye. 

“That’s Bailey,” he remarked tentatively, as the 
object of his scrutiny seated himself at a table, his back 
still turned and without apparently noticing them. 

Kelly did not answer. He had become oblivious to 
M’Kerrel’s presence, but his eyes were bright and keen, 
and they seemed always to be watching. 

“Pretty girl he’s got with him, too. Looks foreign. 

. . . Do you know who she is, Kelly ? ” 

Still no answer. 

Kelly’s mind was working rapidly. The central fact 
round which his thoughts revolved was this : that Bailey 
should be a friend of Miss di Conti’s. Next, it struck 
him that Bailey was probably in the habit of frequenting 
this restaurant, one which he had not entered himself for 
years, as being somewhat outside the radius of his 
customary Soho resorts. The manager was standing by 
the table, talking to Bailey—a fact which had given rise 
to Kelly’s deduction. 

“Seen anything of Frayne lately ? ” M’Kerrel inquired. 

“Eh . . . What’s that! Frayne? No.” 

“Well, he called round on me this afternoon. He 


MERELY MICHAEL 


261 


seemed to have something on his mind—something in 
connection with the Marley case. I thought perhaps 
you might be in his confidence-” 

“No, I’m not,” Kelly broke in shortly. Did he 
mention my name at all ? ” 

He left a sealed letter which he asked me to give to 
you, should he not call for it himself within three days.” 

Kelly’s interest was caught at that. He questioned 
M’Kerrel but could obtain no further information, for 
M’Kerrel himself could not account for Frayne’s sudden 
reticence, and thought it strange. 

Kelly’s face was wrinkled up. Suddenly it cleared, and, 
beckoning to the waiter, he demanded his bill in a hurry. 

“You seem to have solved something. What’s the 
answer ? ’ ’ 

Kelly grinned. “The answer,” said he, “is the pro¬ 
verbial lemon. But it is a funny thing, Mac, and I’ve 
often noticed it before-” 

“Well? ” 

“You happen to think of a—a lemon, say—and it 
appears. Good-night.” And he was off. 

The first thing Kelly did was to make arrangements to 
have Bailey’s further movements watched. His inclination 
then was to call on Frayne, and gain what information 
he could without communicating what was in his own 
mind. But here he wavered, and, what was still less usual 
with him, he hesitated. He had half a mind to return to 
M’Kerrel, and, patting the whole case before him, to 
have the benefit of his hard-bitten experience to bear upon 
so delicate a tissue of theories as this. But it was the 
barest hypothesis on which he was working, and one 
which he himself would have ridiculed as being motiveless 
and absurd, did it not happen to be the only one left. He 
could hear M’Kerrel’s dry chuckle, and could picture the 




262 MERELY MICHAEL 

pawky fun which would be poked at him, should he venture 
upon it. 

No, he decided, he would not show his hand to anyone 
until there was something less abstract to go upon. In 
the morning he would look up Frayne to see what could 
be gathered from him; more than this would be super¬ 
fluous. He would leave it until the morning—absurd to 
think of doing anything in a hurry ; and besides, he was a 
strong believer in the soundness of the morning’s counsel, 
having had cause before this to regret impulsive decisions 
of the night before. He was a man who feared his own 
impulses—and sometimes with reason. 

Morning came, and he got into communication with 
Frayne on the telephone. 

“Hullo. . . . Kelly speaking. ... Is that you, Mr. 
Frayne ? . . . Yes, it’s Kelly. I should like to come 
round and see you this evening and have a chat, if you 
have an hour to spare. . . . Yes, about the Marley case. 
Nothing of importance ; only a few questions I should 
like to ask you. What’s that ? . . . Going out of town, 
are you ? Perhaps we could meet to-morrow, then. . . . 
What ? ... You will let me know as soon as you return ? 
Very well. ... Yes ? ... Yes, that’s all. Motoring, did 
you say? ... I see. Good-bye.’’ 

Well, he thought, as he laid down the receiver, he had 
established this much : Frayne was going out of town. 
He had been careful not to say where he was going ; and 
yet he had left a sealed envelope with M’Kerrel—plainly 
something connected with his going, and something of 
vital importance, too. Could he be going to Marley 
Pryors ? It seemed a fairly reasonable supposition; 
apart from the Marley mystery, there was another attrac¬ 
tion there. And Kelly chuckled to himself. 

It was the evening before the first report of Bailey’s move¬ 
ments reached Kelly. Bailey, he was informed, had been 


MERELY MICHAEL 


263 


shadowed to Charing Cross, where he had taken a ticket to 
Marley by a slow train. The informant had been given 
no instructions to track Bailey out of London ; and having 
discovered all he could, had telephoned results and was 
now awaiting further orders. 

Kelly’s mind was made up in an instant. While blaming 
himself for limiting his agent’s discretionary powers, he 
looked up the time-table. Not much consolation to be 
gained there for anyone in a hurry. Marley was an un¬ 
important station ; only a few slow trains stopped there ; 
the first he could now catch was one which did not leave 
until eight-o’clock, and which arrived at midnight. 

This was no good to Kelly, who wanted to get there—as 
he wanted to get most things in life—in a hurry, especially 
a thing which baffled his comprehension so completely as 
this did. Dipping more deeply into his Bradshaw, he 
found there was a junction twenty miles distant, at which 
all express trains stopped, and that there was a train, 
starting in twenty minutes. He might not manage it, but 
he could try. So off he put, and as luck would have it, 
encountered a passing taxi. 

He found his agent waiting at the station entrance, and 
telling him to telegraph for a motor to await him at the 
junction, he ran for it, reaching the platform just in time 
to board the nearest carriage as the train was steaming out. 

“Phew ! ” he exclaimed, mopping his brow, “that was 
a near thing ! ’’ 

He had the compartment to himself. Time now to do 
a bit of thinking. But the more he thought the more 
puzzled did he grow. To tell the truth, he was not at all 
sure in his own mind why he should have come himself 
instead of deputing his agent, except that he was acting 
on impulse, after all. And he was still less certain what 
precisely he would do when he got there, unless he could 
arrive at a clearer conception of the facts in the meantime. 


264 


MERELY MICHAEL 


“ Kelly, my boy, you’ve let yourself go again,” he thought 
to himself. 

He leaned back watching the landscape fly past, and 
trying to connect in his mind the simultaneous convergence 
of Frayne and Bailey on Marley Pryors. For Frayne 
must have gone to Marley; somehow Kelly had no more 
doubt of that in his mind. 

Frayne was motoring out of town, and he usually motored 
when he went to Marley. Motoring, was he ? Then why 
had he not taken Bailey with him instead of leaving his 
friend to travel down by a slow train ? 

Obviously because Frayne did not know that Bailey 
was going. So this could not be an appointment between 
the two friends. What could it be, then—merely a 
coincidence ? 

Here his imagination began to outpace reason, and to 
paint the beginnings of a picture on his mind. He felt he 
had groped his way to the root of the matter ; all it wanted 
was a hint to set him on the right direction from the start. 

The train had gathered up speed. It dashed, shrieking, 
into a tunnel and enveloped Kelly in a sudden darkness. 
When it emerged into the light again, an answer flashed 
into Kelly’s mind which took his breath away with its 
sheer unexpectedness, and the end of which he could not 
see. 

What could have led Frayne to the same suspicion 
was beyond Kelly’s imagination to grasp; but that it 
must be so, was the only theory which could be made to 
fit in with all the aspects of the riddle. And as the train 
sped on, there fell upon him—as had fallen upon Frayne 
before him—that sense of things impending which must 
culminate at last. 

The motor was waiting at the junction; nothing to 
delay him there. He glanced at his watch, and found it 
was ten o'clock. He should be able to get to Marley within 


MERELY MICHAEL 


265 


the hour; a puncture held him up, however, and the 
parish clock had struck the quarter past eleven as he 
stepped from the car into the Marley Arms. 

Yes, the proprietor stated, Mr. Frayne was putting up 
at the inn ; but he had gone out after dinner—where, 
was not clear, but the suggestion offered was that he may 
have paid a visit to the vicarage. 

Curious the threads by which human destinies hang. 
Esmee had gone up to her den and was writing a letter to 
Dick withdrawing her refusal. She was on the point of 
committing herself to the irrevocable, for she was very 
young, and youth is deliberately destructive when, in its 
despairing moods and bitterness, it sets a seal to the book 
of Fate. 

She had finished off her letter, written and torn up and 
then re-written. Neither the ink, nor her tears, were dry 
when she heard a motor hum past, then pull up and back 
its way to the gate of the vicarage. Her heart beat faster 
as she opened her door and peered out; it began to race 
when she heard a man’s voice—not Michael’s, but Kelly’s 
—converse in low tones with her father. Then she moved 
down a few steps, and silently, to lean over the banister 
and listen. What she heard was not much, but it was 
enough to make up her mind for her. Darting back to 
her room, she slipped into a warm coat, and fastened a 
veil over her head. A moment she paused by the writing- 
table ; then, driven by some blind caprice, she snatched 
up the letter which had cost her tears to write, and tore it 
into a hundred tiny fragments with vicious little jerks of 
her fingers. 

Down she fled by a back stair, and into the garden. 


CHAPTER >XXXIV 


Discussing it months afterwards with M’Kerrel, I put it 
to him straight: Did he not think an imaginative mind, 
knowing what Michael knew, might have leaped to a 
conclusion long ago ? And here I told him of the cigarette, 
and Michael’s suppression of his find. (‘ Just as well,’ said 
M’Kerrel. * It would have hanged the lad Dick, I feel 
sure.') 

But as to the other, M’Kerrel shook his head and looked 
wise ; and, pressed to answer : Where could it have led 
him, then ? ” he queried. ' * Michael has the intuitive 
faculty; but that sound, reasoning mind of his had no 
motive to start deducing from in the beginning.” 

As for Bailey, the facts of his character are really so 
extraordinary, that, being no metaphysician, I do not 
attempt to do justice to them, but leave the facts I write 
of to speak for themselves. This is how I try to account 
for it to myself. Some latent film of madness in Bailey’s 
mind, sensitised by the suggestive influence pervading the 
atmosphere of the so-called ‘Room of Death,’ and which 
suspended his sanity—for the time being, at all events. Or, 
in terms of sound, it may be likened to the reproduction 
of a tune on a record, given the gramophone and the needle. 

But there, I leave it at that, and hasten to the end, which 
is not far distant, returning to the point where we had 
left Michael bound to the fatal chair. 

A face crossed the streak of moonlight. Then a voice 
said softly : 


•266 


MERELY MICHAEL 


267 


“You were expecting me, Frayne. Well, here I am.” 

Michael’s superior strength was swiftly at a discount 
by reason of the rope round his arms. Next, his legs and 
hands pinioned, he sat perfectly still and silent, his eyes 
fixed steadily, dauntlessly, on Bailey’s. Thus was a dream 
come true, the dream that had haunted him. 

Bailey flashed open the dark lantern and walked with 
it in his hand round the chair, examining the knots and 
inserting pads where the rope would otherwise have 
marked the flesh. Then he came to a halt, facing his 
victim, with something of a smile quivering on his thin lips. 

“Now,” he said, “I’ve got you.” He stood for a 
moment mopping his brow with his handkerchief and 
fighting with his emotion. “Why don’t you speak, 
Frayne ? I am not going to gag you; there is no need 
of that.” 

“What the devil do you mean by this joke ? ” Michael 
demanded. But he knew as he spoke that he was at the 
mercy of a maniac; for in Bailey’s eyes was written the 
one word ‘death.’ 

“Joke, Frayne? ... Yes, it is a joke,” and Bailey 
hugged himself as if enjoying the jest immensely. “I 
always said you would find the solution here. And to¬ 
night you will solve the greatest problem of all. . . . But 
there, I see you follow me—‘Suicide whilst temporarily 
insane ’; a comfortable fiction. You see the point, my 
friend ? ’ ’ 

Something so sinister shone out of the mad eyes peering 
into his that Michael involuntarily glanced aside. 

“Oh, it is very pretty ! ” and Bailey gloated over his 
ingenuity in his madman’s way. 

But Michael, knowing of the letter he had left for Kelly, 

said nothing. 

Bailey continued : “ What I want to know is this : How 
did you come to suspect me at all ? \ ou were always a 


268 


MERELY MICHAEL 


fool, Frayne, but you nearly hoodwinked me, all the same 
I thought you were in earnest till we tossed ; then I saw 
you fake the coin so that you should be odd man out. 
Well," and he shook with silent laughter, "you were the 
odd man, and soon you will be out. But how did you 
come to guess—merely as a matter of curiosity ? " 

Michael did not answer at once ; and when he did, he 
spoke very slowly, very thoughtfully : * ‘ There were the 
two half-smoked cigarettes which I found in the shrubbery. 
I thought Dick was the only one who smoked them until 
the other night when you and he dined with me. That 
started me thinking. Now," he added, "I have told you 
my side of the story. There are just a few things I should 
like to ask you before—I go out." 

His quiet mastery was detaching his mind from his 
own peril; he knew only a questioning curiosity as yet. 
Bailey nodded, moistening his lips with his tongue ; and 
the other continued calmly to put his questions : 

"Do you mean to say, Bailey, you would have left 
Dick to swing for the Marley murder—-if it had come to 
that ? " 

"Not much chance of it. . . . No, I did not want him 
to meet with such a death. But he is a man and can 
die—we have seen plenty of men die in France, you and 
I, Frayne—while Miss di Conti is a woman; it is her 
life against Dick’s—after you have gone." 

Then he went on to explain in his gentle voice : " There 
are only two people between her and her rights ; without 
the means of support and comfort she will certainly die. 
The fogs of London are slowly killing her as it is. Without 
money she will die, I tell you. . . . And each day I see 
her growing weaker. Proud and suspicious of charity, 
she will accept nothing but her rights. . . . Well, I am 
getting them for her. There is yourself, Frayne ; and 
after to-night there is only Dick. ..." 


MERELY MICHAEL 


269 


A dreamy softness had come into his eyes, but they 
hardened again as he continued : 

“Ah, you have searched and you have tried in your 
plodding, thick-headed way, and you have found me. 
Now, since you ask it, you are going to hear it all before 
you go. . . . For I’ve got you, Frayne ; I’ve got you-” 

“As you got poor Jimmy.” 

“As I got poor Jimmy,” Bailey echoed. 

Suddenly he leaned forward until his face almost touched 
Michael’s, and his dark, brooding eyes lighted up with a 
mad enthusiasm as he muttered : 

“I’ve watched men die. I have peered into their eyes 
as I’m peering into yours now. . . . There is the fear of 
death first, no matter how hard they try to hide it—not 
physical, Frayne, but fear of the darkness.” 

He sunk his voice to a whisper, lingering over the words 
while trembling himself with the horror he conjured up. 

“But just as the cord of life is snapping ”—clicking a 
finger and thumb together as he said this—“ I have seen a 
look, indescribable. It lasts for the fraction of a second, 
but it is heaven—and hell. ... Do you know, Frayne, 
when the feeling comes over me, I long to photograph— 
death. That fraction of a second I told you of eludes me. 
I keep forgetting; and I long to remember. ...” 

He spoke as a man when the craving of some drug is 
upon him ; there was the same hungry look in his eyes. 

“I keep losing the thing I’m after; but once I fix it. 
I’ll have tracked Fear to its final lair. Then, perhaps, I 
shall be at rest, and this awful craving cease.” He sighed, 
and passed a hand wearily across his eyes. “But it is a 
relief to tell someone about it after all these years of 
silence. You were ever a good listener, Frayne, even 
though you despise this sort of talk. And you will keep 
the secret well,” he added with a sort of parched chuckle. 

And so he talked and raved—now madly exultant; 



270 


MERELY MICHAEL 


now cringing with a fear which shook him like an ague-—a 
morbid, deadly fear which yet seemed to give him an 
exquisite pleasure. It was chiefly on this one subject that 
his mind passed beyond the bounds of sanity. 

Michael tried not to listen, but heard each hateful 
word of it. He fixed his gaze on the lantern, the light of 
which kept ebbing lower and lower like the flickering of 
a man’s life. And the shadows crept in, and closer, until 
every object in the room took on the semblance of some 
dead horror. He could see again the stiff, silent figure of 
old Jimmy; the wide unseeing eyes in the grey solemn 
face. How clearly he could trace each frozen outline 1 
Then it was himself he saw, seated in the same chair, so 
pale and stiff. . . . But here his manhood reasserted 
itself, the simple strength of him crushed and cast aside 
such thoughts. 

Bailey suddenly roused himself as though awakening 
to a normal consciousness from an evil dream. 

“I’ll tell you all,” he said, with some return of his calm. 
“ I promised I would, didn’t I ? ” 

Then he set himself to explain how, when with the 
army in Italy, he had met with the niece of di Conti, then 
reduced to an extreme poverty. He had been with her 
cousin when he fell, and had borne to her the news of the 
death of this her only relative. He had learned from the 
dead Italian of the di Conti claim on Marley, but had been 
withheld by the girl’s pride, and at her express command, 
from asking anything on her behalf. But he was the only 
one left to champion the girl’s cause, and he had vowed 
to himself to see it through. 

Curious to note the twofold madness at work in the 
man’s unbalanced mind—the lifelong fetish of fear 
which was the greater of the two, and this fixed idea of 
himself as the instrument of justice which had made a 
fanatic of him. 


MERELY MICHAEL 


271 


“Yes, I loved her in my own way, Frayne, though she 
does not return it. But greater than the love of a woman 
is the lust of fear.” 

He paused to cast a look of unreasoning terror about 
the room before continuing : 

“ It was something of the sort that drove me here that 
night—he died. It was horror of the place that drew me 
back again when you and Kelly watched. The influence 
of this accursed room ! . . . God ! I shall be alone with 
it again to-night, and the terror will fall upon me with all 
its shadows from the grave.” 

In his terror, his face underwent a remarkable change ; 
it became drawn and grey, and his sunken eyes had a 
haunted look in them. Super-sensitive from boyhood in 
regard to his dread of fear, all the fine brain of the man 
had focussed on this one form of emotionalism; until, 
with the gradual loss of moral control, something in his 
brain had snapped. The war had hastened it. Probably 
it was the first murder which had definitely turned a mind 
already trembling in the balance. 

All this Michael summed up as he sat silent and waited. 
There was no hope of a rescue, he knew. He had removed 
all chance of it himself in telling none of his intentions. 
Dick, who alone knew, was not now in England, having 
crossed over to France the day before. . . . 

The past rose up before him ; thoughts of Esm£e came 
crowding into his mind and he knew at last what the 
sweetness of a woman meant. . . . But that was over 
now, and better so. There was to be no living out his 
years with the bitterness of loss before him. His death, 
too, would not be unavailing : if Kelly acted on the sealed 
letter he had left for him, Dick’s name would be cleared 
of all reproach. Then at the thought of little Kelly's 
round-eyed astonishment on reading the communication 
to him, all at once the ghost of a smile rose to Michael’s lips. 


272 


MERELY MICHAEL 


Bailey stared at him incredulously. “You have no 
fear ? The thought amuses you ? ” he queried. 

“Not altogether, Bailey. But how exactly did poor old 
Jimmy die ? You have not told me yet.” 

“You shall know the truth of that too. There is still 
time.” Bailey stood with his back to the fireplace, leaning 
forward every now and then to peer into the gloom ahead, 
with his fixed, expectant stare. 

“ I had no thought of it at the time,” he said, “but there 
was that about the room which simply drew me. I had 
to return that night, though unconscious myself of any 
definite object in doing so. I got out by the bedroom 
window, lowering myself to the ground at the old wing, 
and entering here by the conservatory door as I have 
done to-night. ... I crept up the stair on tiptoe. . . . 
Jimmy did not hear me ; he was asleep in his chair. As I 
stood and watched him, I thought of the luxury in which 
he lived, contrasting it with a girl's bare struggle—with 
death as her only release. My blood boiled as I thought 
of it. . . . 

“ Old Jimmy was a man of good heart; he could be hard, 
too, I knew. I could have appealed to him, and he might 
have given as a charity what was a right. He had no 
imagination, and she—she had too much pride. He had 
never imagined what it was to suffer in mind—just like 
you, Frayne. . . . 

“All at once, I longed to see it in his eyes—the fear 
which has haunted my soul. Why should he get off scot- 
free—and you too, Frayne—when I have to go through 
life with a dead weight on my soul ? And yet,” he whis¬ 
pered to himself, “and yet, there is an exquisite something 
about it. ... You laugh, Frayne, at what I say ? ” 

He strode up to Michael, his face transformed into that 
of another person altogether. 

“It was in this way that Marley laughed at me when 


MERELY MICHAEL 


278 


he awoke,” he said in a snarling voice curiously unlike the 
gentle tones of Bailey. “I had come up behind him 
and thrust the muzzle of my pistol against his head. I 
cannot say what force was urging me to it. The pistol 
was in my coat pocket; I always carry one. . . . And 
Jimmy woke up and laughed. I cannot say what took 
me—a nervous twitching of the muscles, the cursed 
influence of the room, perhaps: but I know not what. 
The pistol went off—at least, I heard the report of it. . . . 
And old Jimmy lay huddled up in his chair, dead. . . . 
And I liked old Jimmy,” he said, his face twitching. 

"They say fear paralyses thought. Not a bit of it, as 
I told you before. I resolved to ransack the safe in case 
there might be a will to be destroyed to clear the way. 
Oh, I thought of everything,” and he chuckled to himself 
in a voice hoarse with emotion. 

"I was wearing an overcoat, and there were gloves in 
the pocket of it. I put them on, and left no marks. Yes, 
I overhauled the safe and was glad I had. Old Jimmy 
was dead, you see, and nothing could bring him back to 
life,” he repeated gently ; then suddenly a new note came 
into his voice. 

" But it is different with you, Frayne. I hate the solid 
simplicity of your nature. . . . And you tracked Miss di 
Conti down—you and Miss Favoril, between you, tracked 
her down, and insulted her with your offer of money for 
work done—an angel like that! God, for that alone I 
could kill you now. But I shall see the look in your eyes 
first. ...” 

"And how are you going to do that ? ” Michael ques¬ 
tioned with a perfect unconcern in his tones. 

Bailey stood transfixed by the dauntless eyes upon 
him. " Not afraid ? ” he said in almost a whisper. " With 
everything in life to live for ? ” 

Michael gave a short laugh. "I don’t know so much 

s 


274 


MERELY MICHAEL 


about that,” he said pleasantly, as though carrying on a 
friendly conversation. “No, Bailey, I really don’t fancy 
my life so much as all that.” 

“What! with the girl you love ready to fall into your 
arms ? ” 

Michael’s brows knitted into a frown. “ Now,” he said, 
“ I don’t know what you are talking about.” 

“Miss Favoril—who else ? ” 

Michael broke out hotly at last: “You fool, it is Dick 
she is marrying ! ’ ’ 

Bailey stared at him, then began to laugh softly. “ So 
Dick never told you ? And it never occurred to you why 
he is taking himself off to the other ends of the earth ? ” 

As Bailey watched the other’s expression, his saner 
senses slipped from him suddenly again. “Ah,” he 
gloated,“so I have shaken you out of your infernal calm 
at last ? You know now what fear is—answer me.” 

But Michael did not speak for a time, and a deadly hush 
fell upon the hall. 

“No,” he replied at last, “not fear, Bailey. Regret, 
perhaps, that I should die before I know the end of it. 

. . . But who knows ? It may not all end here.” He 
spoke in a changed voice and his face was very grave. 

Bailey’s expression changed yet again ; he grew calmer 
for the moment. “Perhaps not,” he assented. “All 
the same, you are for it now, Frayne. You are of the 
strong who stand in the way of the weak. You are of 
the kind who does not know what it is to live—nor what 
it is to die. ...” 

But even as he spoke, there was that behind his calmness 
which worked him to his final frenzy. Watching him 
narrowly, Michael was wondering how soon the climax 
would arrive that must mean his end; when Bailey, 
as if guessing the working of his mind, supplied the answer. 

“You have now five minutes more to live.” 


MERELY MICHAEL 


275 


He said it very softly, taking out his watch and holding 
it in his hand. But a deadly smoothness in his voice 
warned Michael that every word of it was meant. 

“ Why don't you speak, Frayne ? . . . Have you 
nothing more to say ? ” 

Only the brooding silence answered him, and the 
gloom creeping up and over. 

“Why don’t you speak ? . . . After you have gone I 
shall be damnably alone.” A frozen terror sparkled in 
his eyes, but his lips were smiling. 

“ My God! What’s that ? ” He whipped round to 
peer behind him. “ Nothing,” he muttered, with a twisted 
smile. “ Only the shadows, creeping up to listen.” 

Then he looked at his watch and said: 

“One minute more.” 

He had moved in closer ; Michael could almost hear the 
seconds beat out their death-tattoo. It took him back 
to the crowded Court house when Dick’s life had been in 
the balance. That was over, he reflected, with a sigh. 
But even yet he did not connect the present with himself ; 
or it may have been that his own life was of no great value 
to him—there was such a problem in it, such a heartache 
if he lived. So his detachment remained with him, and 
he did not take the trouble to visualise his death. Not 
yet. . . . 

Then Bailey spoke. “ Now,” he said, consulting his 
watch for the last time, before replacing it in his pocket. 
Then he rested the pistol point behind Michael’s ear. 

At the cold thrust of the steel, Michael found himself 
speculating in a vague sort of way whether Bailey had 
chosen the right spot: He hoped so. And then, whether 
Capper would come along after all was over and pronounce 
upon it in his ghoulish way. His thoughts passed on to 
Esmee. After that, for the fraction of a second, a horror 
of death swept over him, and the shrinking forecast of 


276 


MERELY MICHAEL 


dissolution took a hold of him till he could feel the cold 
sweat bead thickly on his forehead. His mind seemed to 
range through the centuries, so swiftly did it pass through 
time and space. He would have cried out, but his mouth 
was parched and his lips stiff and hard. . . . 

How hot the muzzle of the pistol had grown ! It was 
searing a way right into his brain. . . . Then an ecstasy 
of calm stole over him. It was over—he could start 
afresh. . . . 

“ Ah,” said Bailey, dropping his hand for an instant to 
look for what he sought in Michael’s eyes. 


CHAPTER XXXV 

Kelly had left the car at the vicarage gate. He got the 
surprise of his life when, about to jump in, he beheld a 
small veiled figure already seated, and heard a voice which 
said coaxingly but firmly. 

‘'Please, Mr. Kelly, don't make any fuss. I know all 
about it, and I am going with you. . . . Ple-ease. . . . 
There isn’t any time to argue.” 

Then, as he hummed and hawed : 

“It doesn’t in the least matter what anyone says. I 
am going. . . . Only do hurry ! ” 

Kelly recognised who it was ; but to say he was at a 
loss how to handle the situation would be to grossly under¬ 
estimate his condition of mind. 

“ Wh-where to ? ” he stuttered. Realising his helpless¬ 
ness, he was trying to gain time. 

She answered him in her clear, concise way: “ Marley 
House—but hurry ! ” 

He opened his mouth to speak, but she proved too 
quick for him. 

“Oh, be quick!” she cried. “We have no time to 
waste. Jump in ! ” 

And this is precisely what Kelly did do. He jumped in. 
The chauffeur started the car on Esmee's peremptory 
order, and off they went. Thus it came about that Kelly 
found himself speeding into the darkness, to a doubtful 
destination, with a girl he scarcely knew, on an errand 
about which he was only a shade less vague, The fact of 

877 


278 


MERELY MICHAEL 

the matter was that he had been whirled off his feet by 
Esmee, as had many a better man before him. 

Poor little Kelly! He sat in the motor and watched 
the darkness rush past, and an overpowering sense of 
depression came upon him. He was very miserable, and 
the girl added to his misgiving. What had induced him 
to bring her ? he was wondering. There might be any sort 
of a horror awaiting them at the old house ; for, somehow, 
belief in his own fanciful theory had deepened with the 
girl's presence. She had said, * I know.’ What did she 
mean by that ? And why had she said, without a moment's 
hesitation, * To Marley House ' ?—like an echo from his 
own far-flung fancy, giving substance to that dimly- 
visaged shadow in his mind, and thereby bringing to the 
point of action a decision over which he might have lingered 
otherwise. This is a fact that he admitted to me after¬ 
wards. * She hustled me,’ is how he actually put it. 

His misgiving was grown so strong that once or twice 
he was on the point of turning back with her. Now I 
wonder what would have happened had he tried ? You 
see, I happen to know Esmee ; I also happen to have 
been * hustled.’ 

He muttered nervously : “ I should never have allowed 
you to come.” 

And for answer she leaned forward and addressed the 
chauffeur : " Drive the car for all she is worth,” she said 
in her coaxing way ; and the car plunged forward into the 
night. 

She was dogged by some unaccountable fear, which 
communicated itself to Kelly, and so back to her again 
with redoubled energy, though neither of them spoke a 
word of what was in their mind. It was her woman’s 
instinct and her woman’s love which had led her to it. 
‘I just knew,’ is how she explained it later. ‘ And there 
was no place else he could have gone/ 


MERELY MICHAEL 


279 


“Well/’ said Kelly, “there’s the chauffeur. You can 
wait in the car with him.’* 

To this she made no answer, but sat forward, peering 
into the darkness, her eyes very round and bright and her 
lips pressed close together. She had a wonderful control 
over herself, though every now and then a tremor would 
shake the little white hand gripping the side of the motor 
so tightly. She remained perfectly silent; for once she 
had not a word to say for herself. 

The avenue was a mile long; half-way up it, Kelly 
told the chauffeur to drive slowly. The engines were 
running smoothly, they made but little noise. Further 
on, Kelly stopped the car, and stepped out. 

“You will wait here in the car,” he said. 

Esm£e jumped to the ground. Her face was a study in 
scorn and resolution as she answered : 

“ No ; the car can look after itself.” 

“ But you-” 

"7,” she said, “ shall not be in the way, and the chauffeur 
may be of use,” 

At that Jakes, the chauffeur, sat up and took an interest. 

They had stopped at an angle of the drive which com¬ 
manded the old wing. The moon was obscure, but a 
faint point of light glimmered through the trees, and 
caught Kelly’s eye. 

“There is no time to argue about it,” he snapped. 
“ But you are running a risk, and making me responsible 
for it.” 

He did not say another word, but turned and walked 
swiftly towards the house, Esmde pattering behind him 
and Jakes bringing up the rear. 

The night was very still. A dry twig which snapped 
underfoot sounded like the echo of a pistol-shot. Kelly 
quickened his pace. When they had come to the con¬ 
servatory door, he whispered ; 



280 


MERELY MICHAEL 


“ We’ll take off our boots here. . . . Don’t look so 
blank about it,” he added irritably, addressing himself 
to Jakes. “ All you’ve got to do is to keep perfectly quiet 
and look after the lady.” 

Jakes was young ; also he was intelligent, and even in 
the dark Miss Esmee had taken her toll of homage. He 
nodded, falling in with the spirit of the thing, and pleased 
with the unknown venture which constituted him the girl’s 
guardian. Service in France had quickened his wits. 

Esmee did not speak, and Kelly whispered: 

“Now follow me, and be absolutely quiet—if you can.” 
In a state of tension, he had no time to pick his words. 

The girl's eyes flashed ; she looked as though she could 
have said a lot; but, whatever may have been in her mind, 
she had the sense to keep it to herself. 

Kelly opened the door and closed it very softly again, 
turning the key, which he found in the lock. The moon 
shone through the glass roof and filled the conservatory 
with a ghostly radiance. It shed its light on the stone 
staircase. 

They stood for an instant, waiting. And as they 
listened the sound of a man's laughter grew faintly audible ; 
the softness of it was unnatural. The utter unexpected¬ 
ness of it gave rise to a smothered exclamation from Jakes. 

“Quiet, you fool! ” hissed Kelly. 

Esmee’s breathing quickened as she watched him draw 
his revolver. 

Kelly took the lead, signing to Jakes to follow, while 
Esmee came last of all; and in this order they padded 
noiselessly in their stocking soles across the stone flags. 
They felt their way up silently, pausing at times to listen. 
Esmee's heart beat furiously now, desperate over the time 
they took, and listening—for what she dreaded. She 
knew not what it was, but Michael was in the room of 
death and there was danger. Her woman’s instinct had 


MERELY MICHAEL 


281 


no need to travel further Would they be in time ? 
That was the agonising thought which filled her universe. 

Quick in all his ways, Kelly was not to be hurried; he 
never spoiled a thing by that, once he was in action. At 
the top, he looked back and signalled them to wait; then 
himself advanced on tiptoe, sidling along the wall till he 
was swallowed up in the darkness of the passage. 

Gradually, stealthily, and with an infinite patience, he 
drew a corner of the curtain aside and peered through. . . . 

The light of the lantern on the floor, now flickering 
low, was what directed his gaze. Suddenly the whole 
scene was plain before him. In a flash,the naked, sinister 
meaning of it was revealed. He stood transfixed, with no 
thought save this—he dared not shoot. 

Bailey, stooping over something, shot suddenly upright 
and cast a glance of terror into the darkness. In that 
moment, Kelly had hurtled through the porti&re and on 
him. 

Dimly conscious of a white upturned face and the mad 
terror in a man’s eyes, curious over a sudden flash leaping 
straight at him, and the deafening report of a shot which 
echoed from one end of the world to the other, he closed in. 

A crowded second : grappling with a hand which gripped 
his throat; squeezing fingers, thrusting ... his head 
forced back. The room was spinning round. He was 
swaying, staggering, crushed against the wall, still holding 
off the pistol that was ever drawing nearer. . . . 

Lights were dancing madly before his eyes. A man 
was shouting to him from some infinite point in space. 
All at once the awful tension slackened. A shot rang 
out, followed by the sound of a fall. 

Bailey lay stretched on the floor. There was a look of 
frozen terror in his fast-glazing eyes, but his lips were 
smiling. The room had claimed another victim, 


CHAPTER XXXVI 


When Michael woke next morning at the Marley Arms, 
memory of the night before was confused and incoherent 
as that of an evil dream which passes with the darkness. 
It was difficult, at first, and in broad daylight, to realise 
that these things had really happened. 

He lay for a moment, turning it over in his mind. Then 
he looked at the clock, found it was later than he had 
imagined, so he jumped out of bed and rang the bell. 
There was so much demanding his immediate attention. 
First he had to telegraph for Dick. And then—and 
then ? . . . 

Then the Boots entered with his shaving water and a 
parcel. 

It was so characteristic of Michael to plunge his razor 
in the hot water after a casual glance at the parcel. After 
that he very deliberately opened it, frowning over the 
knots but never cutting the string. There was a thick 
note-book inside which proved to be a diary, the writing 
very cramped and childish in the beginning, and in the 
end the firm, flowing hand of the grown-up Esmee. He 
turned the pages, letting them slip through his hand, and 
wondering, and they rustled as though whispering back 
their secrets. But there was a letter which said : “Read 
this first,” across the top of the envelope, and heavily 
underlined. And this is what he read: 

“ ... I have got to explain, and it is not easy even to 
write it.” 


282 


MERELY MICHAEL 


283 


Here the writing darkened as though she had pressed 
heavily on the paper. 

“ I told Dick the truth—-I had to, Michael. ... I said 
I would marry him and try to forget. I owed him that—• 
at least, I thought I did after all he had been through 
though we were never engaged. He said nothing at the 
time except that he would see, and then he went away. 
Ah, I wanted to tell you this before, but I couldn’t, could 
I ? I heard nothing from him for days, but I knew what 
his answer would be. For somehow Dick does not go 
very deep down, does he ?—much as we both love him as 
a friend. 

“ Yes, Michael, I knew what he would answer in the 
end. He has a clean sense of sport right to the heart of 
him. Was I being a hypocrite ? I meant what I said, 
and I had to tell him. But oh, I was glad ! For I have 
learned a lot since you came into my life, Michael. I want 
to be a comrade to the man I love—not a possession. 
You see ? 1 have not done all the teaching since we met, 

have I ? 

“ Then the night came when you showed me what you 
felt. Showed me, too, what a man’s sense of honour meant 
towards one who was his friend, and who had suffered. 
You gave me your courage then, Michael. I went straight 
upstairs and wrote a lie. I said it was all a mistake— 
that I cared only for him. I knew it was the only way 
with Dick. It was wrong of me, but I did it because you 
thought it right. But I never posted the letter—and 
thank God for it now. Mr. Kelly came round in the 
car, and you know the rest. 

“ Oh, I am glad, Michael, whatever you decide in the 
end. It would have been a crime. Don’t you see it ?— 
living one’s life with a lie. Would you have been a better 
man, or would Dick, for this sacrifice ? Or could I ever 


284 


MERELY MICHAEL 


have been the same woman ? That is the only test, 
after all. Circumstance is already too strong for us. 
Must we continue fighting all our lives ? I have had a 
letter from Dick this morning, but I want you to decide 
first before you see it. Now I leave it all to you. But 
Mickey dear, come soon and tell me. 

“ First read my diary. I want you to know all about 
me. No one else has ever seen it, nor ever shall. . . 

It took him an hour to read it. There was not much, 
just quaint little entries, odd jottings of her thoughts on 
life and feelings from time to time. But he read it slowly, 
as Michael would. One entry he lingered over. This : 

“ Yes," she wrote, “ I know it now. There is too much 
of the property idea in marriage. It is a thing you label 
with your name, and put safely away—in lavender or in 
ashes, as the case may be. But you put it away, that is 
the point, because it is so safe and there is no more need 
to think of its security. And this is just the trouble of it. 

4 ‘ Other things worth having you have to fight to hold ; 
and that unceasingly. If you sit down and do nothing 
about it just because it is so safe, then it slips from you. 
And you deserve to lose. Probably you never deserved 
to have it at all. If you win a golf championship—any¬ 
thing—-you don't sit down and say, ‘ I've won it and 
I'll hold; no need to practise any more.' But this is 
what you do in marriage, man and woman both. Then 
you wonder why it fails 1 . . ." 

The idea seemed to have been growing with her, for 
some months later (her next entry) she writes : 

“ Someone has said in a book—I don’t remember where 
—that ‘ free will is the strength of any tie, not its weak¬ 
ness,’ Row very true ! The law gives security of tenure, 


MERELY MICHAEL 


285 


and makes it safe. It makes it too safe, and that is just 
what is making it so insecure. . . . " 

Then comes this footnote : 

“Query: Can you be comrades with a thing you own 
too much ? I have no answer to the question, but my 
thoughts are my own. 4 . . You need not own too much 
in matrimony. I shan’t! I don’t want to, neither do I 
intend to be owned. I want to need and be needed. . . . 

“I shall be a wayfarer, and hold his hand. And that 
is the very nicest companionship of all, and then we can 
fight all the way. But fight—yes. 

"What shall I think of it, say, five years on ? ’’ 

Then a later entry, in red ink and heavily underlined ; 

"It’s all right—it's merely Michael." 

"Well, I’m damned!" said Michael, beginning to 
frown and then to smile. What else was there to say ? 


CHAPTER XXXVII 


He was trying to say something; but she was conscious 
only of a confusion of words. 

She waited a little and steadied herself. Her hands were 
gripping the sides of the chair, her eyes fixed on the ground. 
Presently she began to follow vaguely what he was saying 
—and that it was about Dick. Then she looked at him 
squarely, and answered him in the brave, frank way of 
her: 

“I can never marry Dick after this. I can never marry 
—any other man, whether you pass out of my life or not, 
Michael.” 

That pulled him up abruptly, and a silence followed 

“ I keep on thinking of Dick. I cannot help it,” Michael 
answered at last, in his slow, deliberate way. 

“ I know what you are feeling about it. I love and 
honour you for it. It’s—it’s just like you, Mickey. But 
it isn’t a bit of good. ... It isn’t really. Last night I 
would have posted that lie to him. Now I can’t. And 
here—here is his letter. It came this morning.” 

She moved over to him as she spoke, with the letter in 
her hand, and stood close to him while he read it, gazing 
upon him and resting the tips of her fingers on his arm. 

“ Good luck to you and Michael.” 

And that was all Dick said. 

The paper slipped through Michael’s fingers and fluttered 

286 


MERELY MICHAEL 


287 


to the floor. The red crept into his cheeks and he faced 
her with a puzzled, boyish, appeal in his eyes. 

“Ah, Mickey/' she whispered, “don’t look at me like 
that. It’s Fate.” 

And then she explained : 

“ When Dick was in trouble ... I think it was then 
I most nearly loved him—at first. . . . Now, it is all so 
different. There is something strange, I can’t quite 
understand it myself. . . .” 

She glanced up at his troubled face in that adorable way 
of hers, and that brought the smile to his lips. 

“ And I did love your never guessing how much I cared 
for you. And—and your dearness about it all.” 

She gave his hand a little squeeze ; and I fancy, to the 
end of his life, he will never forget the radiance that had 
come into her face at the finish. 

There fell a deep silence, till he, with a puzzled look in 
his sea-blue eyes, said : 

“I don’t—I can’t quite understand it yet.” 

And she smiled her wise little woman’s smile. " It 

means-” she began in almost a whisper, but he did 

not give her a chance to finish. . . . 

A moment later, “ Now let me go, Mickey,” she said in 
a little choked voice. 

He did not release his hold of her, but took possession 
more closely—crushingly. 

Michael wonders to this day how he would ever have 
got through the dark times without that dear companion¬ 
ship, and the ever-cheerful courage of her. And she keeps 
him wondering—for that is the way of a woman, if she be 
wise. 

And so I come to the end of my record. The years pass, 
and repeat their round of happiness and of sorrow, of 
light and shade. The old house of Mar ley remains shut 



288 


MERELY MICHAEL 


up, still brooding over its dark secrets. There is a talk of 
demolishing the old wing when Dick returns, and now I 
hear he is expected home before the year is out. Well, it 
may be so. The smoothing hand of Time softens many 
sorrows, but the old house has still the air of waiting; it 
yet retains its mystery. 

Bailey left all he owned to Miss di Conti. She is gone 
back to her own country, beyond which I have been able 
to elicit nothing of her further history. 

I leave off in the place where I began, in the house of 
Michael and Esmee. As I write, a small shrill voice calls 
out impatiently: 

"Come. . . . Qui-ick, I want you! ” 

It is little Miss Esmee junior. I lay down my pen and 
run. 


THE END 




PRINTED BY THE ANCHOR PRESS, LTD., TIPTREE, ESSEX, ENGLAND. 
















library of congress 




































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































